MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
HADLEYBURGI

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON WITH OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
I

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
I

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
I

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
I

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories

My Début as a Literary Person with Other Essays and Stories


MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY
PERSON
with
OTHER ESSAYS AND STORIES

MY DÉBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one
little thing ("The Jumping Frog") in an East-
ern paper, but I did not consider that that counted.
In my view, a person who published things in a
mere newspaper could not properly claim recog-
nition as a Literary Person: he must rise away
above that; he must appear in a magazine. He
would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be
famous—right away. These two ambitions were
strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared
my contribution, and then looked around for the
best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the
most important one in New York. The contribu-
tion was accepted. I signed it "Mark Twain";
for that name had some currency on the Pacific
coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the
world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared
in the December number, and I sat up a month
waiting for the January number; for that one would
contain the year's list of contributors, my name
would be in it, and I should be famous and could
give the banquet I was meditating.


I did not give the banquet. I had not written the
"Mark Twain" distinctly; it was a fresh name to
Eastern printers, and they put it "Mike Swain" or
"MacSwain," I do not remember which. At any
rate, I was not celebrated, and I did not give the
banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all
—a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-
ship Hornet on the line, May 3, 1866. There were
thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in
Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly sur-
vivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three
days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics,
on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable
trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a
remarkable man, otherwise there would have been
no survivors. He was a New-Englander of the best
sea-going stock of the old capable times—Captain
Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly
edition of the Sacramento Union, a rich and in-
fluential daily journal which hadn't any use for
them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a
week for nothing. The proprietors were lovable
and well-beloved men: long ago dead, no doubt,
but in me there is at least one person who still holds
them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted
to see the islands, and they listened to me and gave
me the opportunity when there was but slender
likelihood that it could profit them in any way.


I had been in the islands several months when the
survivors arrived. I was laid up in my room at the
time, and unable to walk. Here was a great occa-
sion to serve my journal, and I not able to take
advantage of it. Necessarily I was in deep trouble.
But by good luck his Excellency Anson Burlingame
was there at the time, on his way to take up his post
in China, where he did such good work for the
United States. He came and put me on a stretcher
and had me carried to the hospital where the ship-
wrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a
question. He attended to all of that himself, and I
had nothing to do but make the notes. It was like
him to take that trouble. He was a great man and
a great American, and it was in his fine nature to
come down from his high office and do a friendly
turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the even-
ing. I took no dinner, for there was no time to
spare if I would beat the other correspondents. I
spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper
order, then wrote all night and beyond it; with this
result: that I had a very long and detailed account
of the Hornet episode ready at nine in the morning,
while the correspondents of the San Francisco
journals had nothing but a brief outline report—for
they did n't sit up. The now-and-then schooner was
to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached
the dock she was free forward and was just casting
off her stern-line. My fat envelope was thrown by


a strong hand, and fell on board all right, and my
victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship
reached San Francisco, but it was my complete re-
port which made the stir and was telegraphed to the
New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge
of the Pacific bureau of the New York Herald at
the time.

When I returned to California by and by, I went
up to Sacramento and presented a bill for general
correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It was
paid. Then I presented a bill for "special" service
on the Hornet matter of three columns of solid non-
pareil at a hundred dollars a column. The cashier
didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent
for the proprietors, and they came and never uttered
a protest. They only laughed in their jolly fashion,
and said it was robbery, but no matter; it was a
grand "scoop" (the bill or my Hornet report, I
didn't know which); "pay it. It's all right."
The best men that ever owned a newspaper.

The Hornet survivors reached the Sandwich
Islands the 15th of June. They were mere skinny
skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and
fitted them no better than a flag fits the flagstaff in
a calm. But they were well nursed in the hospital;
the people of Honolulu kept them supplied with all
the dainties they could need; they gathered strength
fast, and were presently nearly as good as new.
Within a fortnight the most of them took ship for
San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not gone


astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a
sailing-vessel. Captain Mitchell of the Hornet was
along; also the only passengers the Hornet had
carried. These were two young gentlemen from
Stamford, Connecticut—brothers: Samuel Fergu-
son, aged twenty-eight, a graduate of Trinity Col-
lege, Hartford, and Henry Ferguson, aged eighteen,
a student of the same college. The elder brother
had had some trouble with his lungs, which induced
his physician to prescribe a long sea-voyage. This
terrible disaster, however, developed the disease
which later ended fatally. The younger brother is
still living, and is fifty years old this year (1898).
The Hornet was a clipper of the first class and
a fast sailer; the young men's quarters were roomy
and comfortable, and were well stocked with books,
and also with canned meats and fruits to help
out the ship-fare with; and when the ship cleared
from New York harbor in the first week of Janu-
ary, there was promise that she would make quick
and pleasant work of the fourteen or fifteen thou-
sand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold
latitudes were left behind and the vessel entered
summer weather, the voyage became a holiday
picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of
sail which needed no attention, no modifying or
change of any kind, for days together. The young
men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and
drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals
with the captain, and when the day was done they

played dummy whist with him till bedtime. After
the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship
bowled northward into summer weather again, and
the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3d of May. Com-
puted position of the ship 112° 10′ west longitude;
latitude 2° above the equator; no wind, no sea—
dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,
blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been
roasted in it. There was a cry of fire. An un-
faithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone into
the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some
varnish from a cask. The proper result followed,
and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the cap-
tain made the most of it. The three boats were
launched—long-boat and two quarter-boats. That
the time was very short and the hurry and excite-
ment considerable is indicated by the fact that in
launching the boats a hole was stove in the side of
one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar
driven through the side of another. The captain's
first care was to have four sick sailors brought up
and placed on deck out of harm's way—among
them a "Portyghee." This man had not done a
day's work on the voyage, but had lain in his ham-
mock four months nursing an abscess. When we
were taking notes in the Honolulu hospital and a
sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame, the third mate,
who was lying near, raised his head with an effort,


and in a weak voice made this correction—with
solemnity and feeling:

"Raising abscesses! He had a family of them.
He done it to keep from standing his watch."

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up
by the men and the two passengers and brought and
dumped on the deck where the "Portyghee" lay;
then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling
this to Mr. Burlingame added:

"We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for
the thirty-one men that way."

The third mate lifted his head again and made
another correction—with bitterness:

"The Portyghee et twenty-two of them while he
was soldiering there and nobody noticing. A
damned hound."

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke
and flame drove the men back, and they had to stop
their incomplete work of fetching provisions, and
take to the boats with only ten days' rations
secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy
of Bowditch's Navigator, and a nautical almanac,
and the captain's and chief mate's boats had chro-
nometers. There were thirty-one men all told.
The captain took an account of stock, with the
following result: four hams, nearly thirty pounds
of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred
pounds of bread, twelve two-pound cans of oysters,
clams, and assorted meats, a keg containing four


pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a forty-
gallon "scuttle-butt," four one-gallon demijohns
full of water, three bottles of brandy (the property
of passengers), some pipes, matches, and a hundred
pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course the
whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries.
On our voyage to San Francisco we ran into a calm
in the middle of the Pacific, and did not move a rod
during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to
copy the diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest;
I will draw upon it now. When the following para-
graph was written the ship was about one hundred
and twenty days out from port, and all hands were
putting in the lazy time about as usual, as no one
was forecasting disaster.

May 2. Latitude 1° 28′ N., longitude 111° 38′ W. Another hot
and sluggish day; at one time, however, the clouds promised wind, and
there came a slight breeze—just enough to keep us going. The only
thing to chronicle to-day is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were
caught this forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the
first mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go
to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the fish
to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also saw
astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must have
been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of lines and a
piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose he had ap-
peased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the bonitos we
had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three
boats got away, retired to a short distance, and
stopped. The two injured ones were leaking badly;


some of the men were kept busy bailing, others
patched the holes as well as they could. The cap-
tain, the two passengers, and eleven men were in the
long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water,
and with no room to spare, for the boat was only
twenty-one feet long, six wide, and three deep.
The chief mate and eight men were in one of the
small boats, the second mate and seven men in the
other. The passengers had saved no clothing but
what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The
ship, clothed in flame and sending up a vast column
of black smoke into the sky, made a grand picture
in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after hour the
outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain
ciphered on the immensity of the distance that
stretched between him and the nearest available land,
and then scaled the rations down to meet the emer-
gency: half a biscuit for breakfast; one biscuit and
some canned meat for dinner; half a biscuit for
tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And
so hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still
burning.

May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and hopes are that
some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon us. None seen,
however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go together north and a
little west to some islands in 18° or 19° north latitude and 114° to 115°
west longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship.
The ship sank suddenly at about 5 a. m. We find the sun very hot and
scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited
several hours for that possible ship that might have


seen the light to work her slow way to them through
the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and
set about their plans. If you will look at the map
you will say that their course could be easily de-
cided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies
straight eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands
referred to in the diary indefinitely as "some
islands" (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think,
in some widely uncertain region northward about
one thousand miles and westward one hundred or
one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the
Mexican coast, lies about northeast something
short of one thousand miles. You will say random
rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them
strike for Acapulco and the solid continent. That
does look like the rational course, but one presently
guesses from the diaries that the thing would have
been wholly irrational—indeed, suicidal. If the
boats struck for Albemarle they would be in the
doldrums all the way; and that means a watery per-
dition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow
from all points of the compass at once and also per-
pendicularly. If the boats tried for Acapulco they
would get out of the doldrums when half-way there,
—in case they ever got half-way,—and then they
would be in a lamentable case, for there they would
meet the northeast trades coming down in their
teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they
could not sail within eight points of the wind. So
they wisely started northward, with a slight slant to

the west. They had but ten days' short allowance
of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they
could not depend on making any sort of definite
progress in the doldrums, and they had four or five
hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet.
They are the real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy
belt, ten or twelve hundred miles broad, which
girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night, and all got drenched,
but they filled up their water-butt. The brothers
were in the stern with the captain, who steered.
The quarters were cramped; no one got much
sleep. "Kept on our course till squalls headed us
off."

Stormy and squally the next morning, with
drenching rains. A heavy and dangerous "cob-
bling" sea. One marvels how such boats could
live in it. It is called a feat of desperate daring
when one man and a dog cross the Atlantic in a
boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but
this long-boat was overloaded with men and other
plunder, and was only three feet deep. "We
naturally thought often of all at home, and were
glad to remember that it was Sacrament Sunday,
and that prayers would go up from our friends for
us, although they know not our peril."

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the
first three days and nights, but he got a few winks
of sleep the fourth night. "The worst sea yet."
About ten at night the captain changed his course


and headed east-northeast, hoping to make Clipper-
ton Rock. If he failed, no matter; he would be in
a better position to make those other islands. I will
mention here that he did not find that rock.

On the 8th of May no wind all day; sun blister-
ing hot; they take to the oars. Plenty of dolphins,
but they could n't catch any. "I think we are all
beginning to realize more and more the awful situa-
tion we are in." "It often takes a ship a week to
get through the doldrums; how much longer, then,
such a craft as ours." "We are so crowded that
we cannot stretch ourselves out for a good sleep,
but have to take it any way we can get it."

Of course this feature will grow more and more
trying, but it will be human nature to cease to set it
down; there will be five weeks of it yet—we must
try to remember that for the diarist; it will make
our beds the softer.

The 9th of May the sun gives him a warning:
"Looking with both eyes, the horizon crossed
thus +." "Henry keeps well, but broods over our
troubles more than I wish he did." They caught
two dolphins; they tasted well. "The captain
believed the compass out of the way, but the long-
invisible north star came out—a welcome sight—
and indorsed the compass."

May 10, "latitude 7° 0′ 3″ N., longitude 111°
32′ W." So they have made about three hundred
miles of northing in the six days since they left the
region of the lost ship. "Drifting in calms all


day." And baking hot, of course; I have been
down there, and I remember that detail. "Even as
the captain says, all romance has long since van-
ished, and I think the most of us are beginning to
look the fact of our awful situation full in the face."

"We are making but little headway on our
course." Bad news from the rearmost boat: the
men are improvident; "they have eaten up all of
the canned meats brought from the ship, and are
now growing discontented." Not so with the chief
mate's people—they are evidently under the eye of
a man.

Under date of May 11: "Standing still! or
worse; we lost more last night than we made yes-
terday." In fact, they have lost three miles of the
three hundred of northing they had so laboriously
made. "The cock that was rescued and pitched
into the boat while the ship was on fire still lives,
and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a
good deal." What has he been living on for a
week? Did the starving men feed him from their
dire poverty? "The second mate's boat out of
water again, showing that they overdrink their allow-
ance. The captain spoke pretty sharply to them."
It is true: I have the remark in my old notebook;
I got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu.
But there is not room for it here, and it is too com-
bustible, anyway. Besides, the third mate admired
it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The


captain was a thoughtful man, and probably did not
disclose to them that that was substantially a waste
of time. "In this latitude the horizon is filled with
little upright clouds that look very much like ships."
Mr. Ferguson saved three bottles of brandy from his
private stores when he left the ship, and the liquor
came good in these days. "The captain serves out
two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water—half and
half—to our crew." He means the watch that is
on duty; they stood regular watches—four hours
on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent
officer—a self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round
man. The diarist makes the following note—there
is character in it: "I offered one bottle of brandy to
the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could
keep the after-boat quiet, and we had not enough
for all."

henry ferguson's diary to date, given in full.May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,
doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never
experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder, and
wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a
person might properly be expected to keep in such
circumstances—and be forgiven for the economy,
too. His brother, perishing of consumption,
hunger, thirst, blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of
sleep, lack of exercise, was persistently faithful and
circumstantial with his diary from the first day to
the last—an instance of noteworthy fidelity and


resolution. In spite of the tossing and plunging
boat he wrote it close and fine, in a hand as easy
to read as print. They can't seem to get north of
7° N.; they are still there the next day:
May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good deal, though
not enough to fill up our tank, pails, etc. Our object is to get out of
these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it. To-day we have had
it very variable, and hope we are on the northern edge, though we are
not much above 7°. This morning we all thought we had made out a
sail; but it was one of those deceiving clouds. Rained a good deal to-
day, making all hands wet and uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly
all our water-pots, however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the
captain certainly wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or
danger of any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed
that open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the
seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, "the cry of A ship!
brought us to our feet." It seemed to be the
glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of the
curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless
hope while they stood watching, with their hands
shading their eyes, and their hearts in their throats;
then the promise failed: the light was a rising star.
It is a long time ago,—thirty-two years,—and it
does n't matter now, yet one is sorry for their disap-
pointment. "Thought often of those at home to-
day, and of the disappointment they will feel next
Sunday at not hearing from us by telegraph from
San Francisco." It will be many weeks yet before
the telegram is received, and it will come as a
thunder-clap of joy then, and with the seeming of a
miracle, for it will raise from the grave men


mourned as dead. "To-day our rations were re-
duced to a quarter of a biscuit a meal, with about
half a pint of water." This is on the 13th of May,
with more than a month of voyaging in front of
them yet! However, as they do not know that,
"we are all feeling pretty cheerful."

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunder-
storm, "which toward night seemed to close in around
us on every side, making it very dark and squally."
"Our situation is becoming more and more desper-
ate," for they were making very little northing,
"and every day diminishes our small stock of pro-
visions." They realize that the boats must soon
separate, and each fight for its own life. Towing
the quarter-boats is a hindering business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds
and but little progress. Hard to bear, that per-
sistent standing still, and the food wasting away.
"Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped,
and no change of clothes." Soon the sun comes
out and roasts them. "Joe caught another dol-
phin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and
two skip-jacks." There is an event, now, which
rouses an enthusiasm of hope: a land-bird arrives!
It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look at
it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its
message. As a subject of talk it is beyond price—a
fresh, new topic for tongues tired to death of talking
upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land
again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton


Rock? They hope so; and they take heart of
grace to believe so. As it turned out, the bird had
no message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, "the cock still lives, and daily carols
forth His praise." It will be a rainy night, "but
I do not care if we can fill up our water-butts."

On the 17th one of those majestic specters of the
deep, a water-spout, stalked by them, and they
trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it down
in his scanty journal with the judicious comment
that "it might have been a fine sight from a ship."

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: "Only
half a bushel of bread-crumbs left." (And a month
to wander the seas yet.)

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncom-
fortable. Now came a swordfish chasing a bonito;
and the poor thing, seeking help and friends, took
refuge under the rudder. The big swordfish kept
hovering around, scaring everybody badly. The
men's mouths watered for him, for he would have
made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch
him, of course, for he would sink a boat promptly
if molested. Providence protected the poor bonito
from the cruel swordfish. This was just and right.
Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors:
they got the bonito. This was also just and right.
But in the distribution of mercies the swordfish him-
self got overlooked. He now went away; to muse
over these subtleties, probably. "The men in all the
boats seem pretty well; the feeblest of the sick ones


(not able for a long time to stand his watch on
board the ship) is wonderfully recovered." This is
the third mate's detested "Portyghee", that raised
the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and blew
in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, from all points
of the compass.—Henry's Log.Most awful night I ever witnessed.—Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11° 11′. So they have aver-
aged but forty miles of northing a day during the
fortnight. Further talk of separating. "Too bad,
but it must be done for the safety of the whole."
"At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my
eyes for a cat-nap without conjuring up something
or other—to be accounted for by weakness, I sup-
pose." But for their disaster they think they would
be arriving in San Francisco about this time. "I
should have liked to send B the telegram for
her birthday." This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-
boats and said one would have to go off on its own
hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both of
them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief
mate was ready; in fact, he was always ready when
there was a man's work to the fore. He took the
second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to re-
main, and two of his own crew came with him (nine
in the boat, now, including himself). He sailed
away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The
diarist was sorry to see him go. It was natural;


one could have better spared the "Portyghee."
After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against
this "Portyghee" reviving. His very looks have
long passed out of my memory; but no matter, I
am coming to hate him as religiously as ever.
"Water will now be a scarce article, for as we get
out of the doldrums we shall get showers only now
and then in the trades. This life is telling severely
on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate."
Henry did not start well, but under hardships he im-
proved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12° o′ 9″. They
ought to be well out of the doldrums now, but they
are not. No breeze—the longed-for trades still
missing. They are still anxiously watching for a
sail, but they have only "visions of ships that come
to naught—the shadow without the substance."
The second mate catches a booby this afternoon, a
bird which consists mainly of feathers; "but as
they have no other meat, it will go well."

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The
second mate catches three more boobies, and gives
the long-boat one. Dinner "half a can of mince-
meat divided up and served around, which strength-
ened us somewhat." They have to keep a man
bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the boat
when she was launched from the burning ship was
never efficiently mended. "Heading about north-
west now." They hope they have easting enough
to make some of those indefinite isles. Failing that,


they think they will be in a better position to be
picked up. It was an infinitely slender chance, but
the captain probably refrained from mentioning
that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part of the time we
had to steer east-southeast and then west-northwest, and so on. This
morning we were all startled by a cry of "Sail ho!" Sure enough we
could see it! And for a time we cut adrift from the second mate's boat,
and steered so as to attract its attention. This was about half-past five
a. m. After sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty
minutes we made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were
glad to see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter
disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems im-
possible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have deter-
mined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels. Such
being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the other boat,
which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done, we again dividing
water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat. This makes our num-
ber fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to all get in with us and
cast the other boat adrift. It was a very painful separation.

So those isles that they have struggled for so long
and so hopefully have to be given up. What with
lying birds that come to mock, and isles that are
but a dream, and "visions of ships that come to
naught," it is a pathetic time they are having, with
much heartbreak in it. It was odd that the vanished
boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,
should appear again. But it brought Cox—we
can't be certain why. But if it had n't, the diarist
would never have seen the land again.

Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being picked up, but
each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without the fish, turtle,

and birds sent us, I do not know how we should have got along. The
other day I offered to read prayers morning and evening for the captain,
and last night commenced. The men, although of various nationalities
and religions, are very attentive, and always uncovered. May God grant
my weak endeavor its issue.

Latitude, May 24, 14° 18′ N. Five oysters apiece
for dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of
water, and a piece of biscuit the size of a silver dol-
lar. "We are plainly getting weaker—God have
mercy upon us all!" That night heavy seas break
over the weather side and make everybody wet and
uncomfortable, besides requiring constant bailing.
Next day "nothing particular happened." Perhaps
some of us would have regarded it differently.
"Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what it
was." They saw some whales blow; there were fly-
ing-fish skimming the seas, but none came aboard.
Misty weather, with fine rain, very penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15° 50′. They caught a flying-
fish and a booby, but had to eat them raw. "The
men grow weaker, and, I think, despondent; they
say very little, though." And so, to all the other
imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is
added—the muteness and brooding of coming
despair. "It seems our best chance to get in the
track of ships, with the hope that some one will run
near enough to our speck to see it." He hopes
the other boats stood west and have been picked up.
(They will never be heard of again in this world.)

Sunday, May 27. Latitude 16° o′ 5″; longitude, by chronometer,
117° 22′. Our fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on

having about ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid
economy, to make them last another week if possible.*

There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.—M. T.

Last night the
sea was comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about west-
northwest, which has been about our course all day to-day. Another
flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day—both small
ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good large one
makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us—that is, of course, as dinners
go in the Hornet's long-boat. Tried this morning to read the full ser-
vice to myself, with the communion, but found it too much; am too
weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give strict attention; so I put off half
till this afternoon. I trust God will hear the prayers gone up for us at
home to-day, and graciously answer them by sending us succor and help
in this our season of deep distress.

The next day was "a good day for seeing a
ship." But none was seen. The diarist "still feels
pretty well," though very weak; his brother Henry
"bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on
board." "I do not feel despondent at all, for I
fully trust that the Almighty will hear our and the
home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to
fall sees and cares for us, His creatures."

Considering the situation and circumstances, the
record for next day, May 29, is one which has a
surprise in it for those dull people who think that
nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick.
A little starvation can really do more for the average
sick man than can the best medicines and the best
doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean
total abstention from food for one or two days. I
speak from experience; starvation has been my cold
and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has accom-


plished a cure in all instances. The third mate told
me in Honolulu that the "Portyghee" had lain in
his hammock for months, raising his family of
abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have
seen that in spite of dreadful weather, deprivation
of sleep, scorching, drenching, and all manner of
miseries, thirteen days of starvation "wonderfully
recovered" him. There were four sailors down
sick when the ship was burned. Twenty-five days
of pitiless starvation have followed, and now we
have this curious record: "All the men are hearty
and strong; even the ones that were down sick are
well, except poor Peter." When I wrote an article
some months ago urging temporary abstention from
food as a remedy for an inactive appetite and for
disease, I was accused of jesting, but I was in
earnest. "We are all wonderfully well and strong,
comparatively speaking." On this day the starva-
tion regimen drew its belt a couple of buckle-holes
tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the
usual piece of cracker the size of a silver dollar to
the half of that, and one meal was abolished from
the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,
but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left
in them they will disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans of
oysters, and twenty gallons of water.—Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It
is remarkable. Look at the map and see where the
boat is: latitude 16° 44′, longitude 119° 20′. It is


more than two hundred miles west of the Revil-
lagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the ques-
tion against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The
nearest land available for such a boat is the American
group, six hundred and fifty miles away, westward;
still, there is no note of surrender, none even of dis-
couragement! Yet, May 30, "we have now left:
one can of oysters; three pounds of raisins; one can
of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints of biscuit-
crumbs." And fifteen starved men to live on it
while they creep and crawl six hundred and fifty
miles. "Somehow I feel much encouraged by this
change of course (west by north) which we have
made to-day." Six hundred and fifty miles on a
hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after
thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of
the fact that it isn't six hundred and fifty that they
must creep on the hatful, but twenty-two hundred!
Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands?
No. Providence added a startling detail: pulling an
oar in that boat, for common seaman's wages, was
a banished duke—Danish. We hear no more of
him; just that mention, that is all, with the simple
remark added that "he is one of our best men"—
a high enough compliment for a duke or any other
man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With
that little glimpse of him at his oar, and that fine
word of praise, he vanishes out of our knowledge
for all time. For all time, unless he should chance
upon this note and reveal himself.


The last day of May is come. And now there is
a disaster to report: think of it, reflect upon it, and
try to understand how much it means, when you
sit down with your family and pass your eye over
your breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three
pints of bread-crumbs; this morning the little bag is
found open and some of the crumbs missing. "We
dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but
there is no question that this grave crime has been
committed. Two days will certainly finish the re-
maining morsels. God grant us strength to reach
the American group!" The third mate told me in
Honolulu that in these days the men remembered
with bitterness that the "Portyghee" had devoured
twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be
transferred from the burning ship, and that now they
cursed him and swore an oath that if it came to can-
nibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he cannot read our
pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would like, though he is not
familiar with them.

Further of the captain: "He is a good man,
and has been most kind to us—almost fatherly.
He says that if he had been offered the command of
the ship sooner he should have brought his two
daughters with him." It makes one shudder yet to
think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a
piece of cracker the size of a cent, for tea; a gill of water, and a piece
of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a cent, for breakfast.—
Captain's Log.

He means a cent in thickness as well as in circum-
ference. Samuel Ferguson's diary says the ham
was shaved "about as thin as it could be cut."

June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and cobbling, breaking
over and making us all wet and cold. Weather squally, and there is no
doubt that only careful management—with God's protecting care—
preserved us through both the night and the day; and really it is most
marvelous how every morsel that passes our lips is blessed to us. It
makes me think daily of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Henry
keeps up wonderfully, which is a great consolation to me. I somehow
have great confidence, and hope that our afflictions will soon be ended,
though we are running rapidly across the track of both outward and
inward bound vessels, and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler,
man-of-war, or some Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are
put down in Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God
grant they may be there!Hardest day yet.—Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later
they sailed straight over them.

June 2. Latitude 18° 9′. Squally, cloudy, a heavy sea. … I
cannot help thinking of the cheerful and comfortable time we had
aboard the Hornet.Two days' scanty supplies left—ten rations of water apiece and a
little morsel of bread. But the sun shines, and God is merciful.—Cap-
tain's Log.Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17° 54′. Heavy sea all night, and from
4 a. m. very wet, the sea breaking over us in frequent sluices, and soak-
ing everything aft, particularly. All day the sea has been very high,
and it is a wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it
may go down this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting
terrible. I managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the
forward end of the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak,
especially in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I
have dried some things, and hope for a better night.June 4. Latitude 17° 6′, longitude 131° 30′. Shipped hardly any
seas last night, and to-day the sea has gone down somewhat, although

it is still too high for comfort, as we have an occasional reminder that
water is wet. The sun has been out all day, and so we have had a
good drying. I have been trying for the last ten or twelve days to get
a pair of drawers dry enough to put on, and to-day at last succeeded.
I mention this to show the state in which we have lived. If our
chronometer is anywhere near right, we ought to see the American
Isles to-morrow or next day. If they are not there, we have only the
chance for a few days, of a stray ship, for we cannot eke out the
provisions more than five or six days longer, and our strength is failing
very fast. I was much surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted
away above my knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used
to be. Still, I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do
what is best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an
open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one men
in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is more than
mere unassisted human art and strength could have accomplished and
endured.Bread and raisins all gone.—Captain's Log.Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and un-
pleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and if we
must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter death still
more.—Henry's Log.June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day, though our sail and
block show signs of failing, and need taking down—which latter is
something of a job, as it requires the climbing of the mast. We also
had news from forward, there being discontent and some threatening
complaints of unfair allowances, etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still,
these things bid us be on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but
try to keep up the best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only
try to make northwest and get in the track of Sandwich Island bound
vessels, living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to
one meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration of water at 8 or 9
a. m., another at 12 m., and a third at 5 or 6 p. m.Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all around.
—Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now,—such as
it is,—and fifteen hundred miles to crawl yet! And
now the horrors deepen, and though they escaped


actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became
alarming. Now we seem to see why that curious
accident happened, so long ago: I mean Cox's re-
turn, after he had been far away and out of sight
several days in the chief mate's boat. If he had
not come back the captain and the two young pas-
sengers would have been slain by these sailors, who
were becoming crazed through their sufferings.

note secretly passed by henry to his brother.Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of
ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say that
the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save the ship at
all, nor to get provisions, and even would not let the men put in some
they had; and that partiality is shown us in apportioning our rations aft.
* * * asked Cox the other day if he would starve first or eat human
flesh. Cox answered he would starve. * * * then told him he would be
only killing himself. If we do not find these islands we would do well
to prepare for anything. * * * is the loudest of all.reply.We can depend on * * *, I think, and * * *, and Cox, can we not?second note.I guess so, and very likely on * * *; but there is no telling. * * *
and Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet, as I
understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It would be
well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and the cartridges
safe from theft.Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all
such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing
to write down. Heart very sad.Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some seaweed, and something that
looked like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid
islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the hearing of
all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man was dead, from

using the flesh, though they would not kill. Horrible! God give us all
full use of our reason, and spare us from such things! "From plague,
pestilence, and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death,
good Lord, deliver us!"June 6. Latitude 16° 30′, longitude (chron.) 134°. Dry night and
wind steady enough to require no change in sail; but this a. m. an at-
tempt to lower it proved abortive. First the third mate tried and got up
to the block, and fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the hal-
yards through, but had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before
finishing; then Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought
down the block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was
good for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make
serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and will,
I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get everything
connected with the sail in good, easy running order before we get too
weak to do anything with it.Only three meals left.—Captain's Log.June 7. Latitude 16° 35′ N., longitude 136° 30′ W. Night wet
and uncomfortable. To-day shows us pretty conclusively that the
American Isles are not there, though we have had some signs that
looked like them. At noon we decided to abandon looking any farther
for them, and to-night haul a little more northerly, so as to get in the
way of Sandwich Island vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well
this way—say to latitude 19° to 20°—to get the benefit of the trade
winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I hope the
chronometer is wrong in our favor, for I do not see how any such delicate
instrument can keep good time with the constant jarring and thumping
we get from the sea. With the strong trade we have, I hope that a
week from Sunday will put us in sight of the Sandwich Islands, if we
are not safe by that time by being picked up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich
Islands; the provisions are virtually exhausted, but
not the perishing diarist's pluck.

June 8. My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and therefore
I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty well, and should
not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the block, and this
p. m. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down, and Harry got to the

top of the mast and rove the halyards through after some hardship, so
that it now works easy and well. This getting up the mast is no easy
matter at any time with the sea we have, and is very exhausting in our
present state. We could only reward Harry by an extra ration of
water. We have made good time and course to-day. Heading her up,
however, makes the boat ship seas and keeps us all wet; however, it
cannot be helped. Writing is a rather precarious thing these times. Our
meal to-day for the fifteen consists of half a can of "soup and boullie";
the other half is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly,
and is a great favorite. God grant he may be spared!A better feeling prevails among the men.—Captain's Log.June 9. Latitude 17° 53′. Finished to-day, I may say, our whole
stock of provisions.*

Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.—M. T.

We have only left a lower end of a ham-bone,
with some of the outer rind and skin on. In regard to the water, how-
ever, I think we have got ten days' supply at our present rate of allow-
ance. This, with what nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such
chewable matter, we hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to
the Sandwich Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels
thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all human
probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been marvelously
protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in his own good time
and way. The men are getting weaker, but are still quiet and orderly.Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18° 40′, longitude 142° 34′. A pretty
good night last night, with some wettings, and again another beautiful
Sunday. I cannot but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and
what a contrast is here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be!
God grant that it may be relieved before very long, and he certainly
seems to be with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat
miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably over
three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our meager stock
of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do not feel the stint
of food so much as I do that of water. Even Henry, who is naturally
a good water-drinker, can save half of his allowance from time to time,
when I cannot. My diseased throat may have something to do with
that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be
called food. But they must manage somehow for


five days more, for at noon they have still eight
hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interrup-
tions from me—every moment is valuable. I will
take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and
clear the seas before it and let it fly.

henry ferguson's log.Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,
and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for to-
morrow. Certainly never was there such a sweet knuckle-bone, or one
that was so thoroughly appreciated….. I do not know that I feel
any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction of diet;
and I trust that we may all have strength given us to sustain the suffer-
ings and hardships of the coming week. We estimate that we are within
seven hundred miles of the Sandwich Islands, and that our average,
daily, is somewhat over a hundred miles, so that our hopes have some
foundation in reason. Heaven send we may all live to see land!June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone
and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God
send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be brought to
the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I feel now, I do
not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot tell what you
will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind wandering. I
hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands before we get to
this strait; but we have one or two desperate men aboard, though they
are quiet enough now. It is my firm trust and belief that we are going
to be saved.All food gone.—Captain's Log.*

It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the
delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,
and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize
it.—M. T.

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying—dead ahead of it—
and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are
awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is fifty-
four years old.
June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the boot-
legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of them. A
little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't know.June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully
weak. Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see
land soon! Nothing to eat, but feel better than I did yesterday.
Toward evening saw a magnificent rainbow—the first we had seen.
Captain said, "Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy—it's the bow of
promise!"June 15. God be forever praised for his infinite mercy! LAND IN
SIGHT! Rapidly neared it and soon were sure of it…. Two
noble Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully
received by two white men—Mr. Jones and his steward Charley—and
a crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us splen-
didly—aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us water,
poi, bananas, and green cocoanuts; but the white men took care of us
and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing so.
Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in faces,
deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and help
we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.
Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits in
water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread. Takes
every care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread the same,
and then let us go to rest. It is the happiest day of my life…. God
in his mercy has heard our prayer…. Everybody is so kind. Words
cannot tell.June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a
good night's rest; but not sleep—we were too happy to sleep; would
keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion—dreaded that we
might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of
its sort in history that surpasses it in impossibilities
made possible. In one extraordinary detail—the
survival of every person in the boat—it probably
stands alone in the history of adventures of its kind.
Usually merely a part of a boat's company survive


—officers, mainly, and other educated and tenderly
reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labor;
the untrained, roughly reared hard workers suc-
cumb. But in this case even the rudest and rough-
est stood the privations and miseries of the voyage
almost as well as did the college-bred young brothers
and the captain. I mean, physically. The minds
of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth week
and went to temporary ruin, but physically the en-
durance exhibited was astonishing. Those men did
not survive by any merit of their own, of course,
but by merit of the character and intelligence of the
captain; they lived by the mastery of his spirit.
Without him they would have been children without
a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions
in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted
even as long as the provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last.
As it approached the shore the sail was let go, and
came down with a run; then the captain saw that he
was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an
effort was made to hoist the sail again: but it could
not be done; the men's strength was wholly ex-
hausted; they could not even pull an oar. They
were helpless, and death imminent. It was then
that they were discovered by the two Kanakas who
achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned
the boat and piloted her through a narrow and
hardly noticeable break in the reef—the only break
in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot


where the landing was made was the only one in
that stretch where footing could have been found on
the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer
down into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that
stretch this was the only spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but
one were up and creeping about. Properly, they
ought to have killed themselves with the "food" of
the last few days—some of them, at any rate—
men who had freighted their stomachs with strips of
leather from old boots and with chips from the
butter-cask; a freightage which they did not get rid
of by digestion, but by other means. The captain
and the two passengers did not eat strips and chips,
as the sailors did, but scraped the boot-leather and
the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by
moistening them with water. The third mate told
me that the boots were old and full of holes; then
added thoughtfully, "but the holes digested the
best." Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable
thing, and worth noting: during this strange voyage,
and for a while afterward on shore, the bowels of
some of the men virtually ceased from their func-
tions; in some cases there was no action for twenty
and thirty days, and in one case for forty-four!
Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did
very well without it. During many days the captain
did not sleep at all—twenty-one, I think, on one
stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were


successfully protected from overeating except the
"Portyghee"; he escaped the watch and ate an in-
credible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-
two, the third mate said, but this was undoubtedly
an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred and
fifty-one. He was already nearly full of leather;
it was hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this
on the third mate's authority, for we have seen what
sort of person he was; I state it on my own.)
The "Portyghee" ought to have died, of course,
and even now it seems a pity that he did n't; but he
got well, and as early as any of them; and all full of
leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and
handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did
eat handkerchiefs in those last days, also socks;
and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill
the rooster that crowed so gallantly mornings. He
lived eighteen days, and then stood up and
stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort
to do his duty once more, and died in the act. It
is a picturesque detail; and so is that rainbow, too,
—the only one seen in the forty-three days,—rais-
ing its triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy
fighters to sail under to victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell
performed this memorable voyage of forty-three
days and eight hours in an open boat, sailing four
thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred
and sixty by direct courses, and brought every man


safe to land. A bright, simple-hearted, unassuming,
plucky, and most companionable man. I walked
the deck with him twenty-eight days,—when I was
not copying diaries,—and I remember him with
reverent honor. If he is alive he is eighty-six years
old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died
soon after we reached San Francisco. I do not
think he lived to see his home again; his disease
had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats
would presently be heard of, but this hope suffered
disappointment. They went down with all on board,
no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief
mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy
them exactly as they were written, and the extracts
that I have given are without any smoothing over
or revision. These diaries are finely modest and
unaffected, and with unconscious and unintentional
art they rise toward the climax with graduated and
gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity;
they sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and
when the cry rings out at last, "Land in sight!"
your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you
think it is you that have been saved. The last two
paragraphs are not improvable by anybody's art;
they are literary gold; and their very pauses and
uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence
not reachable by any words.


The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is
of the sort that time cannot decay. I have not
looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but I find
that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost?
They have gained; for by some subtle law all tragic
human experiences gain in pathos by the perspec-
tive of time. We realize this when in Naples we
stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in
the historic storm of volcanic ashes eighteen centu-
ries ago, who lies with her child gripped close to her
breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief
have been preserved for us by the fiery envelope
which took her life but eternalized her form and
features. She moves us, she haunts us, she stays
in our thoughts for many days, we do not know
why, for she is nothing to us, she has been nothing
to any one for eighteen centuries; whereas of the
like case to-day we should say, "Poor thing! it is
pitiful," and forget it in an hour.


THE ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

"Yes, i will tell you anything about my life that
you would like to know, Mr. Twain," she
said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes
rest placidly upon my face, "for it is kind and good
of you to like me and care to know about me."

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease
from her cheeks with a small bone-knife and trans-
ferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched the
Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of
the sky and wash the lonely snow-plain and the
templed icebergs with the rich hues of the prism, a
spectacle of almost intolerable splendor and beauty;
but now she shook off her reverie and prepared to
give me the humble little history I had asked for.

She settled herself comfortably on the block of ice
which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to
listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the
Esquimau point of view. Others would have
thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty
years old, and was held to be by far the most be-
witching girl in her tribe. Even now, in the open



Listening to her history




air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur coat and
trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her
face at least was apparent; but her figure had to be
taken on trust. Among all the guests who came
and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospi-
table trough who could be called her equal. Yet she
was not spoiled. She was sweet and natural and
sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,
there was nothing about her ways to show that she
possessed that knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now,
and the better I knew her the better I liked her.
She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,
in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for
the polar regions, for her father was the most im-
portant man of his tribe and ranked at the top of
Esquimau cultivation. I made long dog-sledge trips
across the mighty ice floes with Lasca,—that was
her name,—and found her company always pleasant
and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with
her, but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed
along on the ice and watched her strike her game
with her fatally accurate spear. We went sealing
together; several times I stood by while she and the
family dug blubber from a stranded whale, and once
I went part of the way when she was hunting a bear,
but turned back before the finish, because at bottom
I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story now,
and this is what she said:


"Our tribe had always been used to wander about
from place to place over the frozen seas, like the
other tribes, but my father got tired of that two
years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen
snow-blocks,—look at it; it is seven feet high and
three or four times as long as any of the others,—
and here we have stayed ever since. He was very
proud of his house, and that was reasonable; for if
you have examined it with care you must have
noticed how much finer and completer it is than
houses usually are. But if you have not, you must,
for you will find it has luxurious appointments that
are quite beyond the common. For instance, in
that end of it which you have called the 'parlor,'
the raised platform for the accommodation of guests
and the family at meals is the largest you have ever
seen in any house—is it not so?"

"Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the
largest; we have nothing resembling it in even the
finest houses in the United States." This admis-
sion made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure.
I noted that, and took my cue.

"I thought it must have surprised you," she said.
"And another thing: it is bedded far deeper in furs
than is usual; all kinds of furs—seal, sea-otter,
silver-gray fox, bear, marten, sable—every kind of
fur in profusion; and the same with the ice-block
sleeping-benches along the walls, which you call
'beds.' Are your platforms and sleeping-benches
better provided at home?"


"Indeed, they are not, Lasca—they do not
begin to be." That pleased her again. All she was
thinking of was the number of furs her æsthetic
father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their
value. I could have told her that those masses of
rich furs constituted wealth,—or would in my coun-
try,—but she would not have understood that; those
were not the kind of things that ranked as riches
with her people. I could have told her that the
clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the
commonest person about her, were worth twelve or
fifteen hundred dollars, and that I was not acquainted
with anybody at home who wore twelve-hundred-dol-
lar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have
understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

"And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the
parlor, and two in the rest of the house. It is very
seldom that one has two in the parlor. Have you
two in the parlor at home?"

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I
recovered myself before she noticed, and said with
effusion:

"Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my
country, and you must not let it go further, for I
am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you
my word of honor that not even the richest man in
the city of New York has two slop-tubs in his draw-
ing-room."

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent de-
light, and exclaimed:


"Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean
it!"

"Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Van-
derbilt. Vanderbilt is almost the richest man in the
whole world. Now, if I were on my dying bed, I
could say to you that not even he has two in his
drawing-room. Why, he hasn't even one—I wish
I may die in my tracks if it isn't true."

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and
she said, slowly, and with a sort of awe in her voice:

"How strange—how incredible—one is not able
to realize it. Is he penurious?"

"No—it isn't that. It isn't the expense he
minds, but—er—well, you know, it would look
like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;
he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from
display."

"Why, that humility is right enough," said
Lasca, "if one does not carry it too far—but what
does the place look like?"

"Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and un-
finished, but—"

"I should think so! I never heard anything like
it. Is it a fine house—that is, otherwise?"

"Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of."

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnaw-
ing a candle-end, apparently trying to think the thing
out. At last she gave her head a little toss and
spoke out her opinion with decision:

"Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility


which is itself a species of showing-off, when you
get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is
able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlor, and don't
do it, it may be that he is truly humble-minded, but
it's a hundred times more likely that he is just trying
to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your
Mr. Vanderbilt knows what he is about."

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double
slop-tub standard was not a fair one to try every-
body by, although a sound enough one in its own
habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not
to be persuaded. Presently she said:

"Do the rich people, with you, have as good
sleeping-benches as ours, and made out of as nice
broad ice-blocks?"

"Well, they are pretty good—good enough—
but they are not made of ice-blocks."

"I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-
blocks?"

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the ex-
pensiveness of ice in a country where you have to
keep a sharp eye on your ice man or your ice bill
will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

"Dear me, do you buy your ice?"

"We most surely do, dear."

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

"Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My,
there's plenty of it—it isn't worth anything. Why,
there is a hundred miles of it in sight, right now. I
wouldn't give a fish bladder for the whole of it."


"Well, it's because you don't know how to value
it, you little provincial muggins. If you had it in
New York in midsummer, you could buy all the
whales in the market with it."

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

"Are you speaking true?"

"Absolutely. I take my oath to it."

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said,
with a little sigh:

"I wish I could live there."

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of
values which she could understand; but my pur-
pose had miscarried. I had only given her the im-
pression that whales were cheap and plenty in New
York, and set her mouth to watering for them. It
seemed best to try to mitigate the evil which I had
done, so I said:

"But you wouldn't care for whale meat if you
lived there. Nobody does."

"What!"

"Indeed they don't."

"Why don't they?"

"Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think.
Yes, that is it—just prejudice. I reckon some-
body that hadn't anything better to do started a pre-
judice against it, some time or other, and once you
get a caprice like that fairly going, you know, it will
last no end of time."

"That is true—perfectly true," said the girl,
reflectively. "Like our prejudice against soap, here


—our tribes had a prejudice against soap at first,
you know."

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evi-
dently she was. I hesitated, then said, cautiously:

"But pardon me. They had a prejudice against
soap? Had?"—with falling inflection.

"Yes—but that was only at first; nobody would
eat it."

"Oh,—I understand. I didn't get your idea
before."

She resumed:

"It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came
here from the foreigners, nobody liked it; but as
soon as it got to be fashionable, everybody liked it,
and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are
you fond of it?"

"Yes, indeed! I should die if I couldn't have it
—especially here. Do you like it?"

"I just adore it! Do you like candles?"

"I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are
you fond of them?"

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

"Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!—and
soap!—"

"And fish-interiors!—"

"And train-oil!—"

"And slush!—"

"And whale-blubber!—"

"And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax!
and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—"


"Don't—oh, don't—I shall expire with
ecstasy!—"

"And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and
invite the neighbors and sail in!"

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for
her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed
snow in her face and brought her to, and after a
while got her excitement cooled down. By and by
she drifted into her story again:

"So we began to live here, in the fine house.
But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was
born for love; for me there could be no true happi-
ness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself
alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my
idol's idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would
satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty
—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every
case they had a fatal defect; sooner or later I dis-
covered that defect—not one of them failed to be-
tray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth."

"Your wealth?"

"Yes; for my father is much the richest man in
this tribe—or in any tribe in these regions."

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of.
It couldn't be the house—anybody could build
its mate. It couldn't be the furs—they were not
valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the
harpoons, the boat, the bone fish-hooks and needles,
and such things—no, these were not wealth. Then
what could it be that made this man so rich and


brought this swarm of sordid suitors to his house?
It seemed to me, finally, that the best way to find
out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl was so
manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she
had been aching to have me ask it. She was suffer-
ing fully as much to tell as I was to know. She
snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

"Guess how much he is worth—you never can!"

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she
watching my anxious and laboring countenance
with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,
at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my
longing by telling me herself how much this polar
Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close to
my ear and whispered, impressively:

"Twenty-two fish-hooks—not bone, but foreign
—made out of real iron!"

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the
effect. I did my level best not to disappoint her.

I turned pale and murmured:

"Great Scott!"

"It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!"

"Lasca, you are deceiving me—you cannot mean
it."

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

"Mr. Twain, every word of it is true—every
word. You believe me—you do believe me, now
don't you? Say you believe me—do say you be-
lieve me!"

"I—well, yes, I do—I am trying to. But it


was all so sudden. So sudden and prostrating.
You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden way.
It—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought—"

"Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any
more, for you are young and thoughtless, and of
course you couldn't foresee what an effect—"

"But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known
better. Why—"

"You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six
hooks, to start with, and then gradually—"

"Oh, I see, I see—then gradually added one,
and then two, and then—ah, why couldn't I have
thought of that!"

"Never mind, child, it's all right—I am better
now—I shall be over it in a little while. But—to
spring the whole twenty-two on a person unprepared
and not very strong anyway—"

"Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me—say
you forgive me. Do!"

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant
coaxing and petting and persuading, I forgave her
and she was happy again, and by and by she got
under way with her narrative once more. I pres-
ently discovered that the family treasury contained
still another feature—a jewel of some sort, appar-
ently—and that she was trying to get around speak-
ing squarely about it, lest I get paralyzed again.
But I wanted to know about that thing, too, and
urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid.


But I insisted, and said I would brace myself this
time and be prepared, then the shock would not hurt
me. She was full of misgivings, but the temptation
to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonish-
ment and admiration was too strong for her, and she
confessed that she had it on her person, and said
that if I was sure I was prepared—and so on and
so on—and with that she reached into her bosom
and brought out a battered square of brass, watch-
ing my eye anxiously the while. I fell over against
her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her
heart and nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the
same time. When I came to and got calm, she was
eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

"What do I think of it? I think it is the most
exquisite thing I ever saw."

"Do you really? How nice of you to say that!
But it is a love, now isn't it?"

"Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than
the equator."

"I thought you would admire it," she said. "I
think it is so lovely. And there isn't another one in
all these latitudes. People have come all the way
from the Open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you
ever see one before?"

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen.
It cost me a pang to tell that generous lie, for I had
seen a million of them in my time, this humble jewel
of hers being nothing but a battered old New York
Central baggage check.


"Land!" said I, "you don't go about with it
on your person this way, alone and with no protec-
tion, not even a dog?"

"Ssh! not so loud," she said. "Nobody
knows I carry it with me. They think it is in
papa's treasury. That is where it generally is."

"Where is the treasury?"

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she
looked startled and a little suspicious, but I said:

"Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At
home we have seventy millions of people, and
although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is not
one person among them all but would trust me with
untold fish-hooks."

This reassured her, and she told me where the
hooks were hidden in the house. Then she wandered
from her course to brag a little about the size of the
sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of
the mansion, and asked me if I had ever seen their
like at home, and I came right out frankly and con-
fessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than
she could find words to dress her gratification in. It
was so easy to please her, and such a pleasure to do
it, that I went on and said:

"Ah, Lasca, you are a fortunate girl!—this
beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure,
all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and
limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and
noble freedom and largeness, and everybody's admir-
ing eyes upon you, and everybody's homage and re-


spect at your command without the asking; young,
rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a re-
quirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, noth-
ing to wish for that you cannot have—it is immeas-
urable good fortune! I have seen myriads of girls,
but none of whom these extraordinary things could
be truthfully said but you alone. And you are
worthy—worthy of it all, Lasca—I believe it in my
heart."

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me
say this, and she thanked me over and over again
for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes
showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

"Still, it is not all sunshine—there is a cloudy
side. The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.
Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be
poor—at least not inordinately rich. It pains me
to see neighboring tribesmen stare as they pass by,
and overhear them say, reverently, one to another,
'There—that is she—the millionaire's daughter!'
And sometimes they say sorrowfully, 'She is roll-
ing in fish-hooks, and I—I have nothing.' It breaks
my heart. When I was a child and we were poor,
we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now
—now we have to have a night watchman. In those
days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but
now he is austere and haughty, and cannot abide
familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought,
but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all
the time. And his wealth makes everybody cringing


and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed
at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched
and poor, and destitute of the one element that can
really justify a joke—the element of humor; but
now everybody laughs and cackles at those dismal
things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply
displeased, and shows it. Formerly his opinion was
not sought upon any matter and was not valuable
when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet,
but nevertheless it is sought by all and applauded
by all—and he helps do the applauding himself,
having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.
He has lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once
they were a frank and manly race, now they are
measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In
my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of million-
aires! Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and
content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers;
now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacri-
fice every sentiment of honor and honesty to possess
themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the
foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad
things. As I have said, it was my dream to be
loved for myself alone.

"At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled.
A stranger came by, one day, who said his name
was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said he
loved me. My heart gave a great bound of grati-
tude and pleasure, for I had loved him at sight, and
now I said so. He took me to his breast and said


he would not wish to be happier than he was now.
We went strolling together far over the ice floes,
telling all about each other, and planning, oh, the
loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat
down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I
had brought along some blubber. We were hungry,
and nothing was ever so good.

"He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to
the north, and I found that he had never heard of
my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I mean
he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard
his name—so, you see, he could not know that I
was the heiress. You may be sure that I did not
tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was
satisfied. I was so happy—oh, happier than you
can think!

"By and by it was toward supper time, and I led
him home. As we approached our house he was
amazed, and cried out:

"'How splendid! Is that your father's?'

"It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that
admiring light in his eye, but the feeling quickly
passed away, for I loved him so, and he looked so
handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and
uncles and cousins were pleased with him, and many
guests were called in, and the house was shut up
tight and the rag-lamps lighted, and when everything
was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began
a joyous feast in celebration of my betrothal.

"When the feast was over, my father's vanity


overcame him, and he could not resist the temptation
to show off his riches and let Kalula see what grand
good fortune he had stumbled into—and mainly, of
course, he wanted to enjoy the poor man's amaze-
ment. I could have cried—but it would have done
no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said noth-
ing, but merely sat there and suffered.

"My father went straight to the hiding place, in
full sight of everybody, and got out the fish-hooks
and brought them and flung them scatteringly over
my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on
the platform at my lover's knee.

"Of course, the astounding spectacle took the
poor lad's breath away. He could only stare in
stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single in-
dividual could possess such incredible riches. Then
presently he glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

"'Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!'

"My father and all the rest burst into shouts of
happy laughter, and when my father gathered the
treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere rubbish
and of no consequence, and carried it back to its
place, poor Kalula's surprise was a study. He said:

"'Is it possible that you put such things away
without counting them?'

"My father delivered a vainglorious horse-laugh,
and said:

"'Well, truly, a body may know you have never
been rich, since a mere matter of a fish-hook or two
is such a mighty matter in your eyes.'


"Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but
said:

"'Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of
the barb of one of those precious things, and I have
never seen any man before who was so rich in them
as to render the counting of his hoard worth while,
since the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now,
was possessed of but three.'

"My foolish father roared again with jejune de-
light, and allowed the impression to remain that he
was not accustomed to count his hooks and keep
sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see.
Count them? Why, he counted them every day!

"I had met and got acquainted with my darling
just at dawn; I had brought him home just at dark,
three hours afterward—for the days were shorten-
ing toward the six-months night at that time. We
kept up the festivities many hours; then, at last,
the guests departed and the rest of us distributed
ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and
soon all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too
happy, too excited, to sleep. After I had lain quiet
a long, long time, a dim form passed by me and
was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the
farther end of the house. I could not make out
who it was, or whether it was man or woman.
Presently that figure or another one passed me going
the other way. I wondered what it all meant, but
wondering did no good; and while I was still
wondering, I fell asleep.


"I do not know how long I slept, but at last I
came suddenly broad awake and heard my father
say in a terrible voice, 'By the great Snow God,
there's a fish-hook gone!' Something told me that
that meant sorrow for me, and the blood in my veins
turned cold. The presentiment was confirmed in
the same instant: my father shouted, 'Up, every-
body, and seize the stranger!' Then there was an
outburst of cries and curses from all sides, and a wild
rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to
my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and
wring my hands?—he was already fenced away
from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand
and foot. Not until he was secured would they let
me get to him. I flung myself upon his poor in-
sulted form and cried my grief out upon his breast,
while my father and all my family scoffed at me and
heaped threats and shameful epithets upon him.
He bore his ill usage with a tranquil dignity which
endeared him to me more than ever, and made me
proud and happy to suffer with him and for him.
I heard my father order that the elders of the
tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

"'What?' I said, 'before any search has been
made for the lost hook?'

"'Lost hook!' they all shouted, in derision;
and my father added, mockingly, 'Stand back,
everybody, and be properly serious—she is going
to hunt up that lost hook; oh, without doubt she
will find it!'—whereat they all laughed again.


"I was not disturbed—I had no fears, no doubts.
I said:

"'It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn.
But ours is coming; wait and see.'

"I got a rag-lamp. I thought I should find that
miserable thing in one little moment; and I set
about the matter with such confidence that those
people grew grave, beginning to suspect that perhaps
they had been too hasty. But, alas and alas!—oh,
the bitterness of that search! There was deep
silence while one might count his fingers ten or
twelve times, then my heart began to sink, and
around me the mockings began again, and grew
steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when
I gave up, they burst into volley after volley of cruel
laughter.

"None will ever know what I suffered then. But
my love was my support and my strength, and I
took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and put
my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear,
saying:

"'You are innocent, my own—that I know; but
say it to me yourself, for my comfort, then I can
bear whatever is in store for us.'

"He answered:

"'As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at
this moment, I am innocent. Be comforted, then,
O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou breath of my
nostrils, life of my life!'

"'Now, then, let the elders come!'—and as I


said the words there was a gathering sound of
crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stoop-
ing forms filing in at the door—the elders.

"My father formally accused the prisoner, and
detailed the happenings of the night. He said that
the watchman was outside the door, and that in
the house were none but the family and the stranger.
'Would the family steal their own property?'

"He paused. The elders sat silent many minutes;
at last, one after another said to his neighbor, 'This
looks bad for the stranger'—sorrowful words for
me to hear. Then my father sat down. O miser-
able, miserable me! at that very moment I could have
proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

"The chief of the court asked:

"'Is there any here to defend the prisoner?'

"I rose and said:

"'Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of
them? In another day he would have been heir to
the whole!'

"I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the
steam from the many breaths rising about me like a
fog. At last, one elder after another nodded his
head slowly several times, and muttered, 'There is
force in what the child has said.' Oh, the heart-
lift that was in those words!—so transient, but
oh, so precious! I sat down.

"'If any would say further, let him speak now,
or after hold his peace,' said the chief of the court.

"My father rose and said:


"'In the night a form passed by me in the
gloom, going toward the treasury, and presently
returned. I think, now, it was the stranger.'

"Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that
that was my secret; not the grip of the great Ice
God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor
Kalula:

"'Speak!'

"Kalula hesitated, then answered:

"'It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the
beautiful hooks. I went there and kissed them and
fondled them, to appease my spirit and drown it in
a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have
dropped one, but I stole none.'

"Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place!
There was an awful hush. I knew he had pro-
nounced his own doom, and that all was over. On
every face you could see the words hieroglyphed:
'It is a confession!—and paltry, lame, and thin.'

"I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps—and
waiting. Presently, I heard the solemn words I
knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was
a knife in my heart:

"'It is the command of the court that the accused
be subjected to the trial by water.'

"Oh, curses be upon the head of him who
brought 'trial by water' to our land! It came,
generations ago, from some far country, that lies
none knows where. Before that, our fathers used


augury and other unsure methods of trial, and
doubtless some poor, guilty creatures escaped with
their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by
water, which is an invention by wiser men than we
poor, ignorant savages are. By it the innocent are
proved innocent, without doubt or question, for
they drown; and the guilty are proven guilty with
the same certainty, for they do not drown. My
heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, 'He is
innocent, and he will go down under the waves and
I shall never see him more.'

"I never left his side after that. I mourned in his
arms all the precious hours, and he poured out the
deep stream of his love upon me, and oh, I was so
miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him
from me, and I followed sobbing after them, and
saw them fling him into the sea—then I covered my
face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the
deepest deeps of that word!

"The next moment the people burst into a shout
of malicious joy, and I took away my hands,
startled. Oh, bitter sight—he was swimming!

"My heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I
said, 'He was guilty, and he lied to me!'

"I turned my back in scorn and went my way
homeward.

"They took him far out to sea and set him on an
iceberg that was drifting southward in the great
waters. Then my family came home, and my
father said to me:


"'Your thief sent his dying message to you, say-
ing, "Tell her I am innocent, and that all the days
and all the hours and all the minutes while I starve
and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless
the day that gave me sight of her sweet face."
Quite pretty, even poetical!'

"I said, 'He is dirt—let me never hear mention
of him again.' And oh, to think—he was inno-
cent all the time!

"Nine months—nine dull, sad months—went
by, and at last came the day of the Great Annual
Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash
their faces and comb their hair. With the first
sweep of my comb, out came the fatal fish-hook
from where it had been all those months nestling,
and I fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful
father! Groaning, he said, 'We murdered him,
and I shall never smile again!' He has kept his
word. Listen: from that day to this not a month
goes by that I do not comb my hair. But oh, where
is the good of it all now!"

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale—
whereby we learn that, since a hundred million dol-
lars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the
border of the Arctic Circle represent the same
financial supremacy, a man in straitened circum-
stances is a fool to stay in New York when he can
buy ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.


THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED
I

It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most
honest and upright town in all the region round
about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched dur-
ing three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it,
and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it be-
gan to teach the principles of honest dealing to its
babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the
staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout
the formative years temptations were kept out of the
way of the young people, so that their honesty could
have every chance to harden and solidify, and be-
come a part of their very bone. The neighboring
towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy,
and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in it and
call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to
acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an in-
corruptible town; and if pressed they would also
acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man


hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation
he needed when he went forth from his natal town
to seek for responsible employment.

But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had
the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly
without knowing it, certainly without caring, for
Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not
a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would
have been well to make an exception in this one's
case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All
through his wanderings during a whole year he kept
his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments
to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it.
He contrived many plans, and all of them were
good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough;
the poorest of them would hurt a great many indi-
viduals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as
one person escape unhurt. At last he had a for-
tunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up
his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form
a plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing
to do—I will corrupt the town."

Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of
the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of
the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door.
A woman's voice said "Come in," and he entered,
and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor,


saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
Missionary Herald by the lamp:

"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb
you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one
would hardly know it was there. Can I see your
husband a moment, madam?"

No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return
before morning.

"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely
wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered
to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am
a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a
matter which has been long in my mind. My
errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a
little proud, and you will never see me again.
There is a paper attached to the sack which will
explain everything. Good-night, madam."

The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big
stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her
curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as
follows:
"to be Published; or, the right man sought out by private in-
quiry—either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces—"

"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"

Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and
locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and
stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there


was anything else she could do toward making her-
self and the money more safe. She listened awhile
for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went
back to the lamp and finished reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country,
to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I
have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to
one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses,
in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I was. I was a
ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without
a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that
is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table.
And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to
this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved
the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no
idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to
have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It
is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay,
I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an
honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without
fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to
me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any one
who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the man;
the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test—to wit: open the
sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark.
If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the
money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this pres-
ent writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed en-
velope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and

let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it,
and see if the remark is correct; if correct, let the money be delivered,
with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified."

Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with
excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after
this pattern: "What a strange thing it is! …
And what a fortune for that kind man who set
his bread afloat upon the waters! … If it had
only been my husband that did it!—for we are so
poor, so old and poor! …" Then, with a sigh
—"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he
that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity,
too; I see it now…." Then, with a shudder—
"But it is gambler's money! the wages of sin: we
couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like
to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair…. "I wish Edward would
come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."

At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife
was saying, "I am so glad you've come!" he was
saying, "I'm so tired—tired clear out; it is dread-
ful to be poor, and have to make these dismal jour-
neys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind,
grind, on a salary—another man's slave, and he sit-
ting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable."

"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that;
but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we
have our good name—"


"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind
my talk—it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't
mean anything. Kiss me—there, it's all gone now,
and I am not complaining any more. What have
you been getting? What's in the sack?"

Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed
him for a moment; then he said:

"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why,
Mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars—think of it—a
whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."

He skimmed through it and said:

"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance;
it's like the impossible things one reads about in
books, and never sees in life." He was well stirred
up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old
wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, "Why,
we're rich, Mary, rich; all we've got to do is to
bury the money and burn the papers. If the
gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look
coldly upon him and say: 'What is this nonsense
you are talking? We have never heard of you and
your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and—"

"And in the meantime, while you are running on
with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast
getting along toward burglar-time."

"True. Very well, what shall we do—make the
inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the
romance. The public method is better. Think


what a noise it will make! And it will make all the
other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust
such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they
know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to
the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."

"But stop—stop—don't leave me here alone
with it, Edward!"

But he was gone. For only a little while, how-
ever. Not far from his own house he met the
editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the
document, and said, "Here is a good thing for you,
Cox—put it in."

"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again he and his wife sat down to talk
the charming mystery over; they were in no con-
dition for sleep. The first question was, Who could
the citizen have been who gave the stranger the
twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both
answered it in the same breath—

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it,
and it would have been like him, but there's not
another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it
privately, anyway. For six months, now, the vil-
lage has been its own proper self once more—hon-
est, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his
death—said it right out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."


"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon
he was the best-hated man among us, except the
Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get
another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it
knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess
to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—"

"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select
him?"

"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better
than this village does."

"Much that would help Burgess!"

The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited.
Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely to en-
counter doubt,

"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."

His wife was certainly surprised.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of
his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing
—the thing that made so much noise."

"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one
thing' wasn't enough, all by itself."

"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."

"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody
knows he was guilty."


"Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent."

"I can't believe it, and I don't. How do you
know?"

"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will
make it. I was the only man who knew he was
innocent. I could have saved him, and—and—
well, you know how the town was wrought up—I
hadn't the pluck to do it. It would have turned
everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean;
but I didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent.
Then she said, stammeringly:

"I—I don't think it would have done for you to
—to— One mustn't—er—public opinion—one
has to be so careful—so—" It was a difficult road,
and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but— Why, we
couldn't afford it, Edward—we couldn't indeed.
Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many
people, Mary; and then—and then—"

"What troubles me now is, what he thinks of us,
Edward."

"He? He doesn't suspect that I could have
saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I
am glad of that. As long as he doesn't know that
you could have saved him, he—he—well, that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have


known he didn't know, because he is always trying
to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we
give him. More than once people have twitted me
with it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes,
and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in
saying, 'Your friend Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us
so; I can't think why he keeps it up."

"I can explain it. It's another confession.
When the thing was new and hot, and the town
made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience
hurt me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice, and he got out of
the town and staid out till it was safe to come back."

"Edward! If the town had found it out—"

"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it. I
repented of it the minute it was done; and I was
even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray
it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one
was going to suspect me, and after that I got to
feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—
glad through and through."

"So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful
way to treat him. Yes, I'm glad; for really you did
owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it
should come out yet, some day!"

"It won't."

"Why?"

"Because everybody thinks it was Goodson."


"Of course they would!"

"Certainly. And of course he didn't care.
They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and
charge it on him, and he went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he
was hunting for a place on him that he could despise
the most, then he says, 'So you are the Committee
of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was
about what he was. 'Hm. Do they require par-
ticulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general
answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I will
come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well, then, tell them to go to
hell—I reckon that's general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come
back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the
relics of yourself home in.'"

"Just like Goodson; it's got all the marks. He
had only one vanity: he thought he could give
advice better than any other person."

"It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.
The subject was dropped."

"Bless you, I'm not doubting that."

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again,
with strong interest. Soon the conversation began
to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more fre-
quent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in
thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor,
and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts


with little nervous movements of his hands that
seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife
too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her
movements were beginning to show a troubled dis-
comfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aim-
lessly about the room, plowing his hands through
his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was
having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a
definite purpose; and without a word he put on his
hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife
sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem
to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she
murmured, "Lead us not into t— … but—but
—we are so poor, so poor! … Lead us not
into…. Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no
one would ever know…. Lead us…." The
voice died out in mumblings. After a little she
glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-
glad way—

"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late
—too late…. Maybe not—maybe there is still
time." She rose and stood thinking, nervously
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shud-
der shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry
throat, "God forgive me—it's awful to think such
things—but … Lord, how we are made—how
strangely we are made!"

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily
over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its
ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lov-


ingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old
eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half
out of them at times to mutter, "If we had only
waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not
been in such a hurry!"

Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and
told his wife all about the strange thing that had hap-
pened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and
guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in
the town who could have helped a suffering stranger
with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there
was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and
silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At
last the wife said, as if to herself,

"Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses
… and us … nobody."

The husband came out of his thinkings with a
slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose
face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly
rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his
wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed
once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in
place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment
she was alone, and mumbling to herself.

And now Richards and Cox were hurrying
through the deserted streets, from opposite direc-
tions. They met, panting, at the foot of the print-
ing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read
each other's face. Cox whispered,

"Nobody knows about this but us?"


The whispered answer was,

"Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!"

"If it isn't too late to—"

The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment
they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,

"Is that you, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't ship the early mail—nor any
mail; wait till I tell you."

"It's already gone, sir."

"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.

"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the
towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the
papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—"

The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke
during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,

"What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I
can't make out."

The answer was humble enough:

"I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you
know, until it was too late. But the next time—"

"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a
thousand years."

Then the friends separated without a good-night,
and dragged themselves home with the gait of
mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives
sprang up with an eager "Well?"—then saw the


answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing,
without waiting for it to come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a
new thing; there had been discussions before, but
not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions
to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each
other. Mrs. Richards said,

"If you had only waited, Edward—if you had
only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight
to the printing-office and spread it all over the world."

"It said publish it."

"That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if
you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?"

"Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought
what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it
was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it
so—"

"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had
only stopped to think, you would have seen that
you couldn't find the right man, because he is in his
grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation
behind him; and as long as the money went to
somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would
be hurt by it, and—and—"

She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to
think of some comforting thing to say, and presently
came out with this:

"But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it
must be; we know that. And we must remember
that it was so ordered—"


"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a
person has to find some way out when he has been
stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special way, and
it was you that must take it on yourself to go med-
dling with the designs of Providence—and who
gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it
was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more
becoming to a meek and humble professor of—"

"But, Mary, you know how we have been trained
all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is
absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single
moment to think when there's an honest thing to be
done—"

"Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one ever-
lasting training and training and training in honesty
—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against
every possible temptation, and so it's artificial
honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes,
as we have seen this night. God knows I never had
shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now—and now, under
the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward,
it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten
as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean
town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the
world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so
conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under
great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin


like a house of cards. There, now, I've made con-
fession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've
been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no
man call me honest again—I will not have it."

"I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do;
I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange.
I never could have believed it—never."

A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife looked up and said,

"I know what you are thinking, Edward."

Richards had the embarrassed look of a person
who is caught.

"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—"

"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same
question myself."

"I hope so. State it."

"You were thinking, if a body could only guess
out what the remark was that Goodson made to the
stranger."

"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed.
And you?"

"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've
got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the
morning and admits the sack…. Oh dear, oh
dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!"

The pallet was made, and Mary said:

"The open sesame—what could it have been? I
do wonder what that remark could have been?
But come; we will get to bed now."

"And sleep?"


"No: think."

"Yes, think."

By this time the Coxes too had completed their
spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—
to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry
over what the remark could possibly have been
which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand
dollars, cash.

The reason that the village telegraph office was
open later than usual that night was this: The
foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative
of the Associated Press. One might say its honor-
ary representative, for it wasn't four times a year
that he could furnish thirty words that would be
accepted. But this time it was different. His
dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant
answer:
"Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words."

A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill;
and he was the proudest man in the State. By break-
fast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg
the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from
Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida; and millions and mill-
ions of people were discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man would
be found, and hoping some more news about the
matter would come soon—right away.


II

Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—
astonished—happy—vain. Vain beyond imagina-
tion. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, and
beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and say-
ing this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—
Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to
live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and
unimportant citizens and their wives went around
acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon
grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from
Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that after-
noon and next day reporters began to arrive from
everywhere to verify the sack and its history and
write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing
free-hand pictures of the sack, and of Richards's
house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church,
and the Baptist church, and the public square, and
the town-hall where the test would be applied and
the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the
Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox,
and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was
the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent
fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend,
typical "Sam Lawson" of the town. The little
mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to
all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together


pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old
reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful
endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the
example would now spread far and wide over the
American world, and be epoch-making in the matter
of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down
again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had
sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight—a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces
bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change:
so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed;
maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Hal-
liday, who always noticed everything; and always
made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He
began to throw out chaffing remarks about people
not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two
ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was
deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was tak-
ing on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody
was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-
minded that he could rob the meanest man in town
of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his revery.

At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying
like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh,
usually—by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: "Ah, what could have been
the remark that Goodson made?"


And straightway—with a shudder—came this,
from the man's wife:

"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you
mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for
God's sake!"

But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night—and got the same retort.
But weaker.

And the third night the men uttered the question
yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time
—and the following night—the wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.

And the night after that they found their tongues
and responded—longingly,

"Oh, if we could only guess!"

Halliday's comments grew daily more and more
sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went
diligently about, laughing at the town, individually
and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in
the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was
findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box
around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,
and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,
"Ready!—now look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces
into any softening.

So three weeks passed—one week was left. It
was Saturday evening—after supper. Instead of
the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle


and shopping and larking, the streets were empty
and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart
in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This
was become their evening habit now: the lifelong
habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting,
and contented chat, or receiving or paying neigh-
borly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages
ago—two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now,
nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat
at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.

The postman left a letter. Richards glanced
listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—
unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table
and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless
dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or
three hours later his wife got wearily up and was
going away to bed without a good-night—custom
now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it
awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and
began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with
his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his
wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out:

"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the
letter—read it!"

He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The
letter was from a distant State, and it said:

"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell.
I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode.


Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I
am the only person living who does know. It was Goodson. I knew
him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very
night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I over-
heard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in
Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while
smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the
course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but
two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say 'favorably'
—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually like
any person in the town—not one; but that you—I think he said
you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, pos-
sibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a
fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for
the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that
service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I
know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of
Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am
going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the
right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Good-
son's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
remark: 'You are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.'

"Howard L. Stephenson."

"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so
grateful, oh, so grateful—kiss me, dear, it's forever
since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money
—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank,
and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."

It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent
there on the settee caressing each other; it was the
old days come again—days that had begun with
their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the
wife said:


"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that
grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him,
but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful
of you never to mention it or brag about it."
Then, with a touch of reproach, "But you ought
to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told
your wife, you know."

"Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—"

"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me
about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now
I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that you—Edward, why don't
you tell me?"

"Well—er—er— Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"You see, he—well, he—he made me promise
I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly,

"Made—you—promise? Edward, what do
you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then
she laid her hand within his and said:

"No … no. We have wandered far enough
from our bearings—God spare us that! In all
your life you have never uttered a lie. But now—
now that the foundations of things seem to be crum-
bling from under us, we—we—" She lost her
voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us


not into temptation…. I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep
away from that ground. Now—that is all gone
by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply,
for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember
what the service was that he had done Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary
happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy.
Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service.
At first his conscience was sore on account of the
lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much
reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then?
Was it such a great matter? Aren't we always
acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary—look what she had done. While he was
hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she
doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better
than lying?

That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into
the background and left comfort behind it. The
next point came to the front: Had he rendered that
service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence
as reported in Stephenson's letter; there could be
no better evidence than that—it was even proof
that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point
was settled…. No, not quite. He recalled with
a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just


a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was
Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had
put Richards on his honor! He must himself
decide whither that money must go—and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the
wrong man he would go honorably and find the
right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such
a situation—ah, why couldn't Stephenson have left
out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that
for?

Further reflection. How did it happen that
Richards's name remained in Stephenson's mind as
indicating the right man, and not some other man's
name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very
good. In fact, it went on looking better and better,
straight along—until by and by it grew into posi-
tive proof. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct
that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but
there was still one other detail that kept pushing
itself on his notice: of course he had done that ser-
vice—that was settled; but what was that service?
He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he
had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind
perfect. And so he thought and thought. He
thought of a dozen things—possible services, even
probable services—but none of them seemed ade-
quate, none of them seemed large enough, none of
them seemed worth the money—worth the fortune


Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And
besides, he couldn't remember having done them,
anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of
a service would it be that would make a man so in-
ordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul!
That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now,
how he once set himself the task of converting
Goodson, and labored at it as much as—he was
going to say three months; but upon closer exam-
ination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then
to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered
now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson
had told him to go to thunder and mind his own
business—he wasn't hankering to follow Hadley-
burg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—he hadn't saved
Goodson's soul. Richards was discouraged. Then
after a little came another idea: had he saved Good-
son's property? No, that wouldn't do—he hadn't
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he
might have thought of it before. This time he was
on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was
hard at work in a minute, now.

Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting
hours he was busy saving Goodson's life. He
saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get
well persuaded that it had really happened, a
troublesome detail would turn up which made the


whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drown-
ing, for instance. In that case he had swum out
and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious
state with a great crowd looking on and applauding,
but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm
of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the
town would have known of the circumstance, Mary
would have known of it, it would glare like a lime-
light in his own memory instead of being an incon-
spicuous service which he had possibly rendered
"without knowing its full value." And at this
point he remembered that he couldn't swim, any-
way.

Ah—there was a point which he had been over-
looking from the start: it had to be a service which
he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full
value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy
hunt—much easier than those others. And sure
enough, by and by he found it. Goodson, years
and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet
and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some
way or other the match had been broken off; the
girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by
and by became a soured one and a frank despiser
of the human species. Soon after the girl's death
the village found out, or thought it had found out,
that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her
veins. Richards worked at these details a good
while, and in the end he thought he remembered


things concerning them which must have gotten
mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He
seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found
out about the negro blood; that it was he that told
the village; that the village told Goodson where
they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from
marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of
it," in fact without knowing that he was doing it;
but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a
narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave
grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a for-
tune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now,
and the more he went over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep
satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing
just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly
remembered Goodson's telling him his gratitude
once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dol-
lars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers
for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to
rest.

That same Saturday evening the postman had de-
livered a letter to each of the other principal citizens
—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes
were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were
in the same hand, but the letters inside were just
like each other in every detail but one. They were
exact copies of the letter received by Richards—
handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephen-


son, but in place of Richards's name each receiver's
own name appeared.

All night long eighteen principal citizens did what
their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same
time—they put in their energies trying to remember
what notable service it was that they had uncon-
sciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it
a holiday job; still they succeeded.

And while they were at this work, which was diffi-
cult, their wives put in the night spending the
money, which was easy. During that one night the
nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand
dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—
a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether.

Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday.
He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief
citizens and their wives bore that expression of
peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not
understand it, neither was he able to invent any
remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it.
And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life.
His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness
failed in all instances, upon examination. When he
met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in
her face, he said to himself, "Her cat has had
kittens"—and went and asked the cook: it was not
so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not
know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the face of "Shadbelly" Billson (village
nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson's


had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had
not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory
Yates's face could mean but one thing—he was a
mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. "And
Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents
that he thought he was going to lose." And so on,
and so on. In some cases the guesses had to re-
main in doubt, in the others they proved distinct
errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, "Any-
way it foots up that there's nineteen Hadleyburg
families temporarily in heaven: I don't know how it
happened; I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."

An architect and builder from the next State had
lately ventured to set up a small business in this
unpromising village, and his sign had now been
hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a
discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his
weather changed suddenly now. First one and then
another chief citizen's wife said to him privately:

"Come to my house Monday week—but say noth-
ing about it for the present. We think of building."

He got eleven invitations that day. That night
he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with
her student. He said she could marry a mile higher
than that.

Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-
to-do men planned country-seats—but waited. That
kind don't count their chickens until they are
hatched.


The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-
dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told
all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they
were thinking the matter over and thought they
should give it—"and if we do, you will be invited,
of course." People were surprised, and said, one
to another, "Why, they are crazy, those poor
Wilsons, they can't afford it." Several among the
nineteen said privately to their husbands, "It is a
good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is
over, then we will give one that will make it sick."

The days drifted along, and the bill of future
squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and
wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the nineteen
would not only spend his whole forty thousand dol-
lars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by
the time he got the money. In some cases light-
headed people did not stop with planning to spend,
they really spent—on credit. They bought land,
mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes,
horses, and various other things, paid down the
bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at
ten days. Presently the sober second thought came,
and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was be-
ginning to show up in a good many faces. Again
he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of
it. "The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they
weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no
shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened
—it is an unsolvable mystery."


There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev.
Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people
seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him;
and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a
member of the nineteen would be sure to appear,
thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper
"To be opened at the town-hall Friday evening,"
then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was ex-
pecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,
—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead,—but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be
claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he
found that he had nineteen envelopes.

III

The town-hall had never looked finer. The plat-
form at the end of it was backed by a showy draping
of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of
flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this
was to impress the stranger, for he would be there
in considerable force, and in a large degree he would
be connected with the press. The house was full.
The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles;
the steps of the platform were occupied; some dis-
tinguished strangers were given seats on the plat-
form; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the
front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of
special correspondents who had come from every-


where. It was the best-dressed house the town had
ever produced. There were some tolerably expen-
sive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had
that look, but the notion could have arisen from the
town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had
never inhabited such clothes before.

The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front
of the platform where all the house could see it.
The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning in-
terest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples
gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the
male half of this minority kept saying over to them-
selves the moving little impromptu speeches of
thankfulness for the audience's applause and con-
gratulations which they were presently going to get
up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and
privately glanced at it to refresh his memory.

Of course there was a buzz of conversation going
on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr.
Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could
hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on
to speak in warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and
well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value;


that under Providence its value had now become
inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had
spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused
the eyes of the American world upon this village,
and mad its name for all time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
[Applause.] "And who is to be the guardian of
this noble treasure—the community as a whole?
No! The responsibility is individual, not communal.
From this day forth each and every one of you is in
his own person its special guardian, and individually
responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you
—does each of you—accept this great trust?
[Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit
it to your children and to your children's children.
To-day your purity is beyond reproach—see to it
that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a
person in your community who could be beguiled
to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you
abide in this grace. ["We will! we will!"]
This is not the place to make comparisons between
ourselves and other communities—some of them
ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we
have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am
done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's
eloquent recognition of what we are; through him
the world will always henceforth know what we are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I
utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your
voices in endorsement."


The house rose in a body and made the walls
quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the
space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr.
Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The
house held its breath while he slit the envelope open
and took from it a slip of paper. He read its con-
tents—slowly and impressively—the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic docu-
ment, each of whose words stood for an ingot of
gold:

"'The remark which I made to the distressed
stranger was this: "You are very far from being a
bad man: go, and reform."'" Then he continued:

"We shall know in a moment now whether the re-
mark here quoted corresponds with the one con-
cealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so
—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold be-
longs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand
before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue
which has made our town famous throughout the
land—Mr. Billson!"

The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into
the proper tornado of applause; but instead of
doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there
was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave
of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about
this tenor: "Billson! oh, come, this is too thin!
Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Bill-
son! tell it to the marines!" And now at this
point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in


a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that
whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was
standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same.
There was a wondering silence now for a while.

Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.

Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each
other. Billson asked, bitingly,

"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"

"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be
good enough to explain to the house why you rise?"

"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that
paper."

"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."

It was Burgess's turn to be paralyzed. He stood
looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the
other, and did not seem to know what to do. The
house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up,
now, and said,

"I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that
paper."

That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out
the name,

"'John Wharton Billson.'"

"There!" shouted Billson, "what have you got
to say for yourself, now? And what kind of
apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"


"No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest
of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note
from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way
by which you could have gotten hold of the test-
remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret
of its wording."

There was likely to be a scandalous state of things
if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that
the short-hand scribes were scribbling like mad;
many people were crying "Chair, Chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:

"Let us not forget the proprieties due. There
has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely
that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—
and I remember now that he did—I still have it."

He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced
at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent
a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despond-
ently. Several voices cried out:

"Read it! read it! What is it?"

So he began in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:

"'The remark which I made to the unhappy stran-
ger was this: "You are far from being a bad man.
[The house gazed at him, marveling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can this
mean?"] This one," said the Chair, "is signed
Thurlow G. Wilson."


"There!" cried Wilson, "I reckon that settles
it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined."

"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you
know that neither you nor any man of your kidney
must venture to—"

The Chair.

"Order, gentlemen, order! Take
your seats, both of you, please."

They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling
angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it
did not know what to do with this curious emer-
gency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson
was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nine-
teener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats
was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:

"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a
suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right?
I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say
the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me—"

The tanner got up and interrupted him. The
tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself
entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:

"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen
—twice in a hundred years—but not the other
thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!"

[A ripple of applause.]

Billson.

"I did!"


Wilson.

"I did!"

Then each accused the other of pilfering.

The Chair.

"Order! Sit down, if you please
—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out
of my possession at any moment."

A Voice.

"Good—that settles that!"

The Tanner.

"Mr. Chairman, one thing is now
plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping un-
der the other one's bed, and filching family secrets.
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will re-
mark that both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order!
order!"] I withdraw the remark, sir, and will con-
fine myself to suggesting that if one of them has
overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his
wife, we shall catch him now."

A Voice.

"How?"

The Tanner.

"Easily. The two have not
quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You
would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a con-
siderable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel in-
serted between the two readings."

A Voice.

"Name the difference."

The Tanner.

"The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the other."

Many Voices.

"That's so—he's right!"

The Tanner.

"And so, if the Chair will examine
the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of
these two frauds— [The Chair. "Order!"]—
which of these two adventurers— [The Chair.
"Order! order!"]—which of these two gentlemen


—[laughter and applause]—is entitled to wear the
belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and
which will be a sultry place for him from now out!"
[Vigorous applause.]

Many Voices.

"Open it!—open the sack!"

Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand
in and brought out an envelope. In it were a
couple of folded notes. He said:

"One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined
until all written communications which have been
addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been
read.' The other is marked 'The Test.' Allow
me. It is worded—to wit:

"'I do not require that the first half of the re-
mark which was made to me by my benefactor shall
be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words
are quite striking, and I think easily rememberable;
unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the
applicant be regarded as an impostor. My bene-
factor began by saying he seldom gave advice to any
one, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high
value when he did give it. Then he said this—and
it has never faded from my memory: "You are far
from being a bad man—"'"

Fifty Voices.

"That settles it—the money's
Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!"

People jumped up and crowded around Wilson,
wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—


meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:

"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me
finish reading, please." When quiet was restored,
the reading was resumed—as follows:

"'"Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some
day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Had-
leyburg—try and make it the former."'"

A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud
began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizen-
ship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a
tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so
hard that it was only kept under with great and
painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites,
and other strangers bent their heads down and
shielded their faces with their hands, and managed
to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy.
At this most inopportune time burst upon the still-
ness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday's:

"That's got the hall-mark on it!"

Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even
Mr. Burgess's gravity broke down presently, then
the audience considered itself officially absolved from
all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
whole-hearted one, but it ceased at last—long
enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it
broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at
last Burgess was able to get out these serious words:


"It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find
ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import.
It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the
town's good name. The difference of a single word
between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and
Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indi-
cated that one or the other of these gentlemen had
committed a theft—"

The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed;
but at these words both were electrified into move-
ment, and started to get up—

"Sit down!" said the Chair, sharply, and they
obeyed. "That, as I have said, was a serious thing.
And it was—but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honor of both is
now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further,
and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the
crucial fifteen words." He paused. During several
moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather
and deepen its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there
collusion?—agreement?"

A low murmur sifted through the house; its im-
port was, "He's got them both."

Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a
helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He
struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said:

"I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain
this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I


am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable in-
jury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed
and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability
to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all.
But for the preservation of my own honor I must
speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame
—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I
said to the ruined stranger all of the words con-
tained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication
was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim
the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to
it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and
weigh it well: that stranger's gratitude to me that
night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could
find no words for it that were adequate, and that if
he should ever be able he would repay me a thou-
sand fold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I ex-
pect—could I believe—could I even remotely
imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so
ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—
expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my
own people assembled in a public hall? It was pre-
posterous; it was impossible. His test would con-
tain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.
Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would
have thought as I did. You would not have ex-
pected a base betrayal from one whom you had be-
friended and against whom you had committed no

offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect
trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words
—ending with 'Go, and reform,'—and signed it.
When I was about to put it in an envelope I was
called into my back office, and without thinking I
left the paper lying open on my desk." He
stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson,
waited a moment, then added: "I ask you to note
this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was
retiring by my street door." [Sensation.]

In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:

"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"

The Chair.

"Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has
the floor."

Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and
quieted him, and Wilson went on:

"Those are the simple facts. My note was now
lying in a different place on the table from where I
had left it. I noticed that, but attached no import-
ance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there.
That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a
thing which could not occur to me; he was an
honorable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained; it is attributable to a defect
of memory. I was the only man in the world who
could furnish here any detail of the test-remark—by
honorable means. I have finished."

There is nothing in the world like a persuasive
speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the


convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience
not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged
him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed
to him and shook him by the hand and congratu-
lated him, and Billson was shouted down and not
allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and
hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting,

"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!"

At last there was a measurable degree of quiet,
and the hatter said:

"But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to de-
liver the money?"

Voices.

"That's it! That's it! Come forward,
Wilson!"

The Hatter.

"I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—"

The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and
in the midst of them—and in the midst of the
clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted
Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's
voice now rose above the noise—

"Order! To your places! You forget that
there is still a document to be read." When quiet
had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying,
"I forgot; this is not to be read until all written
communications received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his pocket,


removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed
astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared
at it.

Twenty or thirty voices cried out:

"What is it? Read it! read it!"

And he did—slowly, and wondering:

"'The remark which I made to the stranger—
[Voices. "Hello! how's this?"]—was this:
"You are far from being a bad man. [Voices.
"Great Scott!"] Go, and reform."' [Voice.
"Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by Mr. Pinker-
ton the banker."

The pandemonium of delight which turned itself
loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep.
Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the
tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter,
set down disordered pot-hooks which would never
in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog
jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself
crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scat-
tered through the din: "We're getting rich—two
Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting
Billson!" "Three!—count Shadbelly in—we
can't have too many!" "All right—Billson's
elected!" "Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two
thieves!"

A Powerful Voice.

"Silence! The Chair's
fished up something more out of its pocket."

Voices.

"Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read
it! read! read!"


The Chair [reading.]

"'The remark which I
made,' etc.: "You are far from being a bad man.
Go," etc. Signed, "Gregory Yates.""

Tornado of Voices.

"Four Symbols!" "'Rah
for Yates!" "Fish again!"

The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready
to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be
in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and dis-
tressed, got up and began to work their way toward
the aisles, but a score of shouts went up:

"The doors, the doors—close the doors; no In-
corruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, every-
body!"

The mandate was obeyed.

"Fish again! Read! read!"

The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar
words began to fall from its lips—"'You are far
from being a bad man—'"

"Name! name! What's his name?"

"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"

"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on,
go on!"

"'You are far from being a bad—'"

"Name! name!"

"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"

"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!"

Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme
(leaving out "it's") to the lovely "Mikado" tune
of "When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid—";
the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time,
somebody contributed another line—


"And don't you this forget—" The house roared it out. A third line was at once
furnished—
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are—" The house roared that one too. As the last note
died, Jack Halliday's voice rose high and clear,
freighted with a final line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the
happy house started in at the beginning and sang
the four lines through twice, with immense swing
and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incor-
ruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find
worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night."

Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all
over the place:

"Go on! go on! Read! read some more!
Read all you've got!"

"That's it—go on! We are winning eternal
celebrity!"

A dozen men got up now and began to protest.
They said that this farce was the work of some
abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were
all forgeries—

"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are con-
fessing. We'll find your names in the lot."


"Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes
have you got?"

The Chair counted.

"Together with those that have been already ex-
amined, there are nineteen."

A storm of derisive applause broke out.

"Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move
that you open them all and read every signature that
is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the
first eight words of the note."

"Second the motion!"

It was put and carried—uproariously. Then
poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and
stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband
gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began
to speak in a quavering voice:

"My friends, you have known us two—Mary
and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked
us and respected us—"

The Chair interrupted him:

"Allow me. It is quite true—that which you
are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you
two; it does like you; it does respect you; more—
it honors you and loves you—"

Halliday's voice rang out:

"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair
is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise!
Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!"

The house rose in mass, faced toward the old


couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of
waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with
all its affectionate heart.

The Chair then continued:

"What I was going to say is this: We know
your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a
time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous
purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to
plead for these men—"

"But I was going to—"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must
examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to
the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done—I give you
my word for this—you shall be heard."

Many Voices.

"Right!—the Chair is right—no
interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!
—the names! the names!—according to the terms
of the motion!"

The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the hus-
band whispered to the wife, "It is pitifully hard to
have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever
when they find we were only going to plead for
ourselves."

Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the
reading of the names.

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'

"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'


"'You are far from being a bad man—' Sig-
nature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"

At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking
the eight words out of the Chairman's hands. He
was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he
held up each note in its turn, and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and
measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a
daringly close resemblance to a well-known church
chant)—"'You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.'" Then the Chair said, "Signature, 'Archi-
bald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after
name, and everybody had an increasingly and glori-
ously good time except the wretched Nineteen.
Now and then, when a particularly shining name
was called, the house made the Chair wait while it
chanted the whole of the test-remark from the be-
ginning to the closing words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!"
and in these special cases they added a grand and
agonized and imposing "A-a-a-a-men!"

The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old
Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a
name resembling his own was pronounced, and wait-
ing in miserable suspense for the time to come when
it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with
Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to
word thus: "… for until now we have never
done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble
way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old,


and have no chick nor child to help us; we were
sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose
when I got up before to make confession and beg
that my name might not be read out in this public
place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it;
but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place
to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It
is the first time we have ever heard our name fall
from any one's lips—sullied. Be merciful—for
the sake of the better days; make our shame as
light to bear as in your charity you can." At this
point in his revery Mary nudged him, perceiving
that his mind was absent. The house was chant-
ing, "You are f-a-r," etc.

"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name
comes now; he has read eighteen."

The chant ended.

"Next! next! next!" came volleying from all
over the house.

Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old
couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled
a moment, then said,

"I find I have read them all."

Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into
their seats, and Mary whispered,

"Oh, bless God, we are saved!—he has lost ours
—I wouldn't give this for a hundred of those
sacks!"

The house burst out with its "Mikado" travesty,
and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthu-


siasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third
time the closing line—
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "Had-
leyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representa-
tives of it."

Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed
cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one soli-
tary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal
that money—Edward Richards."

They were given with great and moving hearti-
ness; then somebody proposed that Richards be
elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand
up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face.

Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it with,
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!" There was a pause; then—

A Voice.

"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"

The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm).

"That's easy.
The money has to be divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger
twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in
his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the pro-
cession to move past. Staked the stranger—total
contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back—and interest—forty thousand dollars alto-
gether."


Many Voices [derisively.]

"That's it! Divvy!
divvy! Be kind to the poor—don't keep them
waiting!"

The Chair.

"Order! I now offer the stranger's
remaining document. It says: 'If no claimant
shall appear [grand chorus of groans], I desire that
you open the sack and count out the money to the
principal citizens of your town, they to take it in
trust [cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use it in such
ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation
and preservation of your community's noble reputa-
tion for incorruptible honesty [more cries]—a repu-
tation to which their names and their efforts will add
a new and far-reaching lustre.' [Enthusiastic out-
burst of sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all.
No—here is a postscript:

"'P. S.—Citizens of Hadleyburg: There is
no test-remark—nobody made one. [Great sen-
sation.] There wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying
benediction and compliment—these are all inven-
tions. [General buzz and hum of astonishment and
delight.] Allow me to tell my story—it will take
but a word or two. I passed through your town at
a certain time, and received a deep offense which I
had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call it square,
but to me that would have been a trivial revenge,
and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be-
sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made


as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I
wanted to damage every man in the place, and every
woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity—the place where feeble and
foolish people are most vulnerable. So I disguised
myself and came back and studied you. You were
easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation
for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—
it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of
your eye. As soon as I found out that you care-
fully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children
out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why,
you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things
is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I
laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My pro-
ject was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible.
My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly
half a hundred smirchless men and women who had
never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny.
I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started
to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid be-
fore you, you would say to yourselves, "Goodson
is the only man among us who would give away
twenty dollars to a poor devil"—and then you
might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Good-
son; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and
baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the
men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but
I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadley-

burg nature. [Voices. "Right—he got every last
one of them."] I believe they will even steal osten-
sible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally
and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Had-
leyburg a new renown—one that will stick—and
spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and
summon the Committee on Propagation and Preser-
vation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.'"

A Cyclone of Voices.

"Open it! Open it! The
Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propagation
of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!"

The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up
a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them
together, then examined them—

"Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!"

There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this
news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner
called out:

"By right of apparent seniority in this business,
Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Prop-
agation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step for-
ward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the
money."

A Hundred Voices.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!"

Wilson [in a voice trembling with anger.]

"You
will allow me to say, and without apologies for my
language, damn the money!"

A Voice.

"Oh, and him a Baptist!"


A Voice.

"Seventeen Symbols left! Step up,
gentlemen, and assume your trust!"

There was a pause—no response.

The Saddler.

"Mr. Chairman, we've got one
clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy;
and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that
you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and
auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and
give the result to the right man—the man whom
Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards."

This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog
taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at
a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's representa-
tive fought hard for it, the people cheered every
jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed
moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders
got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more
daring, more and more determined, the jumps went
from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty,
then fifty, then to a hundred, then—

At the beginning of the auction Richards whis-
pered in distress to his wife: "O Mary, can we
allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor-reward, a
testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can
we allow it? Hadn't I better get up and—O
Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think
we— [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!—fif-
teen for the sack!—twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty
—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear
forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentle-


men, keep it rolling!—fifty!—thanks, noble Roman!
going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—
splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—
hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!—hun-
dred and fifty!—two hundred!—superb! Do I
hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—"]

"It is another temptation, Edward—I'm all in a
tremble—but, oh, we've escaped one temptation,
and that ought to warn us to— ["Six did I hear?
—thanks!—six fifty, six f—seven hundred!"]
And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—
["Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!
—Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!
—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine
hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—
a thousand!—gratefully yours!—did some one say
eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most cele-
brated in the whole Uni—"] O Edward" (begin-
ning to sob), "we are so poor!—but—but—do as
you think best—do as you think best."

Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a con-
science which was not satisfied, but which was over-
powered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur
detective gotten up as an impossible English earl,
had been watching the evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented expression
in his face; and he had been privately commenting
to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat
like this: "None of the Eighteen are bidding;


that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the
dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack
they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,
too—some of them are rich. And another thing,
when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the
man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay it. This
poor old Richards has brought my judgment to
shame; he is an honest man:—I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces
and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his.
And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if I can manage it.
He disappointed me, but let that pass."

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand,
the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He
waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid
or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dol-
lars, he added a five; some one raised him a three;
he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar
jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The
house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he
was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began
to speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a
speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with per-
sons interested in numismatics all over the world. I
can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your approval,
whereby I can make every one of these leaden


twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and per-
haps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give
part of my gains to your Mr. Richards, whose in-
vulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially
recognized to-night; his share shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money to-morrow.
[Great applause from the house. But the "invulner-
able probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;
however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.]
If you will pass my proposition by a good majority
—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that
as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will rouse
curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have
your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of
these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gen-
tlemen who—"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in
a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was
carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and
laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr."
Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against
the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger,
calmly. "I know my legal rights, and am not ac-
customed to being frightened at bluster." [Applause.]
He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity
here. He was one of the two very rich men of the
place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was


proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent
medicine. He was running for the Legislature on
one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a
close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every
day. Both had strong appetites for money; each
had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose;
there was going to be a new railway, and each
wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the
route to his own advantage; a single vote might
make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes.
The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger.
He leaned over while one or another of the other
Symbols was entertaining the house with protests
and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny
less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel
at ten in the morning. I don't want it known; will
see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and
said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen


are not without merit, not without interest, not with-
out grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my
leave. I thank you for the great favor which you
have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the
Chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and
to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.
"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will
deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards
in person, at his home. Good night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making
a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of
cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man
—a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratu-
lations and compliments until midnight. Then they
were left to themselves. They looked a little sad,
and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary
sighed and said,

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much
to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing
triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where
the congratulators had been gloating over them and
reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer
at once; then he brought out a sigh and said,
hesitatingly:

"We—we couldn't help it, Mary. It—well, it
was ordered. All things are."


Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but
he didn't return the look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always
tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—
Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N-no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning—by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:

"Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of peo-
ple's money pour through my hands, but—Mary,
I am so tired, so tired—"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the
sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Hark-
ness had a talk with him privately. The stranger
asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank
—drawn to "Bearer,"—four for $1,500 each, and
one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his
pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,-
500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added
a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone.
At eleven he called at the Richards house and
knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shut-
ters, then went and received the envelope, and the
stranger disappeared without a word. She came


back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and
gasped out:

"I am sure I recognized him! Last night it
seemed to me that maybe I had seen him some-
where before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and
sold every important citizen in this town with his
bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks instead of
money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had
escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable
once more, after my night's rest, but the look of
that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more
bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to checks?"

"Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned
to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank
notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered,
Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I
have not the pluck to try to market a check signed
with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow
or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is
checks—"

"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" and she held up
the checks and began to cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be
tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at


us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me,
since you can't do it!" He snatched them and
tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove;
but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped
a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he
came near to fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as
gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of
that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think—"

"Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—
fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five
hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dol-
lars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about
par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think—in-
stead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made
to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I
reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter
known. What is that—a note?"

"Yes. It was with the checks."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but
there was no signature. It said:
"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,


and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is
sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment.
Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen
debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take
the whole pot, you are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary
—I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—"

"To think, Mary—he believes in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary
—and God knows I believed I deserved them once
—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for
them. And I would put that paper away, as repre-
senting more than gold and jewels, and keep it
always. But now— We could not live in the
shadow of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope.

Richards took from it a note and read it; it was
from Burgess.

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It
was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grate-
ful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave
and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, know-
ing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general
voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a
grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden.

[Signed]
"Burgess."

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He


put the note in the fire. "I—I wish I were dead,
Mary, I wish I were out of it all."

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The
stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—
and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thou-
sand voters suddenly found himself in possession of
a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "the remark i made to the poor
stranger was—" Around the other face was
stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed]
pinkerton." Thus the entire remaining refuse of
the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head,
and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent
vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and
Harkness's election was a walkover.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had
received their checks their consciences were quieting
down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to
reconcile themselves to the sin which they had com-
mitted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin
takes on new and real terrors when there seems a
chance that it is going to be found out. This gives
it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.
At church the morning sermon was of the usual
pattern; it was the same old things said in the same
old way; they had heard them a thousand times and
found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and
easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the


sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed
aimed straight and specially at people who were con-
cealing deadly sins. After church they got away
from the mob of congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at
they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefi-
nite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of
Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no
attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't
seen it; but they did not know that. What could
his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean
—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that
he knew that Richards could have cleared him of
guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently
waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At
home, in their distress they got to imagining that
their servant might have been in the next room
listening when Richards revealed the secret to his
wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next,
Richards began to imagine that he had heard the
swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on
a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been be-
traying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her
manner. They asked her some questions—ques-
tions which were so random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the
old people's minds had been affected by their sudden
good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which
they bent upon her frightened her, and that com-

pleted the business. She blushed, she became
nervous and confused, and to the old people these
were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort
or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.
When they were alone again they began to piece
many unrelated things together and get horrible re-
sults out of the combination. When things had got
about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sud-
den gasp, and his wife asked,

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?"

"The note—Burgess's note! Its language was
sarcastic, I see it now." He quoted: "'At bot-
tom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of
that matter of which I am accused'—oh, it is per-
fectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I
know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It
was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And
Mary—?"

"Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going
to say—he didn't return your transcript of the pre-
tended test-remark."

"No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has
exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it
well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah,
he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition—he
knew what he had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news
went around in the morning that the old couple were
rather seriously ill—prostrated by the exhausting
excitement growing out of their great windfall, the


congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said.
The town was sincerely distressed; for these old
people were about all it had left to be proud of,
now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old
couple were delirious, and were doing strange things.
By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited
checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum
—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this
gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news—
and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the
checks, lest harm come to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the patient's
pillow—vanished away. The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the checks—"

"You will never see them again—they are de-
stroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-
brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and
dreadful things which were not clearly understand-
able, and which the doctor admonished them to keep
to themselves.

Richards was right; the checks were never seen
again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within
two days the forbidden gabblings were the property
of the town; and they were of a surprising sort.
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a


claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had
concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it.
And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the
chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind.
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much
talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs.
Richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be
duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion flamed up
into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the
purity of its one undiscredited important citizen be-
gan to dim down and flicker toward extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old
couple were dying. Richards's mind cleared in his
latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to
say something in privacy."

"No!" said Richards: "I want witnesses. I
want you all to hear my confession, so that I may
die a man, and not a dog. I was clean—artificially
—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when tempta-
tion came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable
sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done
him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he
suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the
thing that was charged against Burgess years ago.
My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared
him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer
disgrace—"


"No—no—Mr. Richards, you—"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him—"

"No one has betrayed anything to me—"
—"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing,
he repented of the saving kindness which he had
done me, and he exposed me—as I deserved—"

"Never!—I make oath—"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf
ears; the dying man passed away without knowing
that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong.
The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey
to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the
last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not
showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and peti-
tion—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name
to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and
leave one word out of the motto that for many gen-
erations had graced the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will
have to rise early that catches it napping again.


MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT
OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information
about "my first lie, and how I got out of it."
I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked
about my first truth it would have been easier for
me and kinder of you, for I remember that fairly
well; I remember it as if it were last week. The
family think it was week before, but that is flattery
and probably has a selfish project back of it. When
a person has become seasoned by experience and
has reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age
of discretion, he likes a family compliment as well
as ever, but he does not lose his head over it as in
the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back;
but I remember my second one very well. I was
nine days old at the time, and had noticed that if a
pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the
usual fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and
pitied in a most agreeable way and got a ration be-
tween meals besides. It was human nature to want


to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about the pin
—advertising one when there wasn't any. You
would have done it; George Washington did it;
anybody would have done it. During the first half
of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise
above that temptation and keep from telling that lie.
Up to 1867 all the civilized children that were ever
born into the world were liars—including George.
Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game.
But is that reform worth anything? No; for it is
reform by force and has no virtue in it; it merely
stops that form of lying; it doesn't impair the dis-
position to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle applica-
tion of conversion by fire and sword, or of the tem-
perance principle through prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin,
and they realized that another liar had been added
to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare in-
spiration, a quite commonplace but seldom noticed
fact was borne in upon their understandings—that
almost all lies are acts, and speech has no part in
them. Then, if they examined a little further they
recognized that all people are liars from the cradle
onward, without exception, and that they begin to
lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it
up, without rest or refreshment, until they go to
sleep at night. If they arrived at that truth it prob-
ably grieved them—did, if they had been heedlessly
and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers;
for why should a person grieve over a thing which


by the eternal law of his make he cannot help? He
didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy
and keep so still that he shall deceive his fellow-con-
spirators into imagining that he doesn't know that
the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can
tell it without saying a word, and we all do it—we
that know. In the magnitude of its territorial spread
it is one of the most majestic lies that the civiliza-
tions make it their sacred and anxious care to guard
and watch and propagate.

For instance: It would not be possible for a
humane and intelligent person to invent a rational
excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in
the early days of the emancipation agitation in the
North, the agitators got but small help or counte-
nance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal still-
ness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way
down to the bottom of society—the clammy still-
ness created and maintained by the lie of silent asser-
tion—the silent assertion that there wasn't anything
going on in which humane and intelligent people
were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end
of it, all France, except a couple of dozen moral
paladins, lay under the smother of the silent-asser-
tion lie that no wrong was being done to a perse-
cuted and unoffending man. The like smother


was over England lately, a good half of the popula-
tion silently letting on that they were not aware
that Mr. Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a
war in South Africa and was willing to pay fancy
prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent
ostensible civilizations working the silent-assertion
lie. Could one find other instances in the three
countries? I think so. Not so very many, per-
haps, but say a billion—just so as to keep within
bounds. Are those countries working that kind of
lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands
of varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that
to be true. The universal conspiracy of the silent-
assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere,
and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,
never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable.
Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It
seems to have the look of it. For ages and ages it
has mutely labored in the interest of despotisms and
aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military
slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them
alive; keeps them alive yet, here and there and
yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping
them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going
on which fair and intelligent men are aware of and
are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races
and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies


in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should
we care anything about the trifling lies told by in-
dividuals? Why should we try to make it appear
that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should
we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why
should we without shame help the nation lie, and
then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own
account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honor-
able, and lie every time we get a chance? That is
to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and either
lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help
the nation lie the whole day long and then object to
telling one little individual private lie in our own
interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our
mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways.
They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing can persuade
them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics
or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get
even the poorest little personal advantage out of it is
a thing which is impossible to them. They make
me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so
bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of
it; they will not tell it when it hasn't even a sugges-
tion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This
has a restraining influence upon me in spite of
reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies,
just like anybody; but they don't notice it until their


attention is called to it. They have got me so that
sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they
don't approve of it. Still, that is as far as I can go
in the interest of the growing friendly relations
between the two countries; I must keep some of my
self-respect—and my health. I can live on a low
diet, but I can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have
to come out with a spoken lie, for that is a thing
which happens to everybody once in a while, and
would happen to the angels if they came down here
much. Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the
lies I speak of are self-sacrificing ones told for a gen-
erous object, not a mean one; but even when these
people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them
and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to
see, and shows that they are all insane. In fact, it
is a country full of the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years'
standing, and yesterday when we were coming down-
town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a lie
—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a
mulatto: I can't seem to tell any other kind now,
the market is so flat. I was explaining to him how
I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year.
I do not know what might have become of me if I
hadn't happened to remember to tell the police that
I belonged to the same family as the Prince of
Wales. That made everything pleasant and they let


me go; and apologized, too, and were ever so kind
and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much
for me, and explained how the mistake came to be
made, and promised to hang the officer that did it,
and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not
say anything about it; and I said they could depend
on me. My friend said, austerely:

"You call it a modified lie? Where is the
modification?"

I explained that it lay in the form of my state-
ment to the police.

"I didn't say I belonged to the royal family: I
only said I belonged to the same family as the Prince
—meaning the human family, of course; and if
those people had had any penetration they would
have known it. I can't go around furnishing brains
to the police; it is not to be expected."

"How did you feel after that performance?"

"Well, of course I was distressed to find that the
police had misunderstood me, but as long as I had
not told any lie I knew there was no occasion to sit
up nights and worry about it."

My friend struggled with the case several minutes,
turning it over and examining it in his mind; then he
said that so far as he could see the modification was
itself a lie, being a misleading reservation of an ex-
planatory fact; so I had told two lies instead of one.

"I wouldn't have done it," said he: "I have
never told a lie, and I should be very sorry to do
such a thing."


Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful
of surprised and delighted smiles down at a gentle-
man who was passing in a hansom.

"Who was that, G?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you do that?"

"Because I saw he thought he knew me and was
expecting it of me. If I hadn't done it he would
have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street."

"Well, your heart was right, G, and your
act was right. What you did was kindly and
courteous and beautiful; I would have done it
myself: but it was a lie."

"A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you
make it out?"

"I know you didn't speak, still you said to him
very plainly and enthusiastically in dumb show,
'Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you, old
fellow; when did you get back?' Concealed in
your actions was what you have called 'a misleading
reservation of an explanatory fact'—the fact that
you had never seen him before. You expressed joy
in encountering him—a lie; and you made that
reservation—another lie. It was my pair over
again. But don't be troubled—we all do it."

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other mat-
ters were being discussed, he told how he happened
along once just in the nick of time to do a great serv-
ice for a family who were old friends of his. The


head of it had suddenly died in circumstances and
surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful character.
If known, the facts would break the hearts of the
innocent family and put upon them a load of unen-
durable shame. There was no help but in a giant
lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

"The family never found out, G?"

"Never. In all these years they have never sus-
pected. They were proud of him, and always had
reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful."

"They had a narrow escape, G."

"Indeed they had."

"For the very next man that came along might
have been one of these heartless and shameless truth-
mongers. You have told the truth a million times
in your life, G, but that one golden lie atones
for it all. Persevere."

Some may think me not strict enough in my
morals, but that position is hardly tenable. There
are many kinds of lying which I do not approve.
I do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures
somebody else; and I do not like the lie of bravado,
nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy: the latter was affected
by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, "Truth crushed to earth will
rise again."

I have taken medals at thirteen world's fairs, and
may claim to be not without capacity, but I never
told as big a one as that which Mr. Bryant was play-


ing to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in
substance, this—I do not remember the exact
words: "This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live."

I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books,
and have read his Revolution eight times; and so I
prefer to think he was not entirely at himself when
he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in
a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans
out of his back-yard with brickbats. They used to
go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of them, but he was always able to conceal it.
He kept bricks for them, but he was not a good
shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a
nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we
do not much care what the reliquary thinks about it.
I am quite sure that when he told that large one
about a lie not being able to live, he had just missed
an American and was over-excited. He told it above
thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in
history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give
him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told
the truth, a word must be said, of course. It is the
principal jewel in the crown of America, and it is
but natural that we should work it for all it is
worth, as Milton says in his "Lay of the Last Min-


strel." It was a timely and judicious truth, and I
should have told it myself in the circumstances.
But I should have stopped there. It was a stately
truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I think it was a
mistake to go on and distract attention from its sub-
limity by building another Tower alongside of it
fourteen times as high. I refer to his remark that
he "could not lie." I should have fed that to the
marines: or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style.
It would have taken a medal at any European fair,
and would have got an Honorable Mention even at
Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass:
the Father of his Country was excited. I have been
in those circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to
offer, as already indicated. I think it was not pre-
meditated, but an inspiration. With his fine mili-
tary mind, he had probably arranged to let his
brother Edward in for the cherry-tree results, but
by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could
astonish his father; his father would tell the neigh-
bors; the neighbors would spread it; it would travel
to all firesides; in the end it would make him Presi-
dent, and not only that, but First President. He
was a far-seeing boy and would be likely to think of
these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other
Tower: it was a mistake. Still, I don't know about
that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't. For


indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live.
If he hadn't said "I cannot tell a lie," there would
have been no convulsion. That was the earthquake
that rocked the planet. That is the kind of state-
ment that lives forever, and a fact barnacled to it
has a good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with
things the way they are. There is a prejudice
against the spoken lie, but none against any other,
and by examination and mathematical computation
I find that the proportion of the spoken lie to the
other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the
spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth
while to go around fussing about it and trying to
make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and
confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and in-
equalities and unfairnesses that afflict the peoples—
that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But
let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then— But I have wandered from my text.
How did I get out of my second lie? I think I got
out with honor, but I cannot be sure, for it was a
long time ago and some of the details have faded
out of my memory. I recollect that I was reversed
and stretched across some one's knee, and that
something happened, but I cannot now remember
what it was. I think there was music; but it is all
dim now and blurred by the lapse of time, and this
may be only a senile fancy.


THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORTOne Fly Makes a Summer.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's CalendarI.

A great beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse,
Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred
round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking;
flitting here and there and everywhere were white-
aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty.
At a table near the main entrance were grouped half
a dozen lively young fellows—American students—
drinking goodby to a visiting Yale youth on his
travels, who had been spending a few days in the
German capital.

"But why do you cut your tour short in the
middle, Parrish?" asked one of the students. "I
wish I had your chance. What do you want to go
home for?"

"Yes," said another, "what is the idea? You
want to explain, you know, because it looks like in-
sanity. Homesick?"


A girlish blush rose in Parrish's fresh young face,
and after a little hesitation he confessed that that
was his trouble.

"I was never away from home before," he said,
"and every day I get more and more lonesome. I
have not seen a friend for weeks, and it's been hor-
rible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride's
sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It's
been heaven to me, and I can't take up that com-
panionless dreariness again. If I had company—
but I haven't, you know, so it's no use. They used
to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and
I reckon I'm that yet—girlish and timorous, and
all that. I ought to have been a girl! I can't stand
it; I'm going home."

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he
was making the mistake of his life; and one of them
added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg
before turning back.

"Don't!" said Parrish, appealingly. "It was
my dearest dream, and I'm throwing it away.
Don't say a word more on that head, for I'm made
of water, and can't stand out against anybody's
persuasion. I can't go alone; I think I should die."
He slapped his breast pocket, and added: "Here
is my protection against a change of mind; I've
bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-
night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—
this is for home!"


The goodbyes were said, and Alfred Parrish was
left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a
moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a
brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision
and confidence suggestive of military training, came
bustling from the next table, and seated himself at
Parrish's side, and began to speak, with concen-
trated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face,
his person, his whole system, seemed to exude
energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—
one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He ex-
tended a frank hand, shook Parrish's cordially, and
said, with a most convincing air of strenuous convic-
tion:

"Ah, but you mustn't; really you mustn't; it
would be the greatest mistake; you would always
regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don't do it—
don't!"

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a
seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of up-
lift to the youth's despondent spirits, and a telltale
moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional
confession that he was touched and grateful. The
alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with
that response, and followed up his advantage
without waiting for a spoken one:

"No, don't do it; it would be a mistake. I have
heard everything that was said—you will pardon
that—I was so close by that I couldn't help it.


And it troubled me to think that you would cut
your travels short when you really want to see St.
Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it!
Reconsider it—ah, you must reconsider it. It is
such a short distance—it is very soon done and
very soon over—and think what a memory it
will be!"

Then he went on and made a picture of the Rus-
sian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred
Parrish's mouth water and his roused spirits cry out
with longing. Then—

"Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must! Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I
know, because I know the place as familiarly as I
know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—
I've known it ten years. Ask anybody there;
they'll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson.
The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must
go; you must, indeed."

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now.
He would go. His face said it as plainly as his
tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow
fell, and he said, sorrowfully:

"Oh no—no, it's no use; I can't. I should die
of the loneliness."

The Major said, with astonishment: "The—
loneliness! Why, I'm going with you!"

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite
pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was


this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence
all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and un-
known lad? Then he glanced at the Major's frank
and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed;
and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape
without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he
was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at
the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small
confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of
unselfishness:

"Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn't—I
couldn't allow you to put yourself to such an incon-
venience on my—"

"Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I
was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express
at nine. Come! we'll go together. You sha'n't
be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the
word!"

So that excuse had failed. What to do now?
Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no
subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive
would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he
must make another effort, and he did; and before
he had finished his new excuse he thought he recog-
nized that it was unanswerable:

"Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me,
and it is impossible. Look at these"—and he
took out his tickets and laid them on the table.
"I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn't get


these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St.
Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the
money; and if I could afford to lose the money I
should be rather short after I bought the new tickets
—for there is all the cash I've got about me"—
and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the
table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and cou-
pons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthu-
siasm:

"Good! It's all right, and everything safe.
They'll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me; they all know me—everybody knows me.
Sit right where you are; I'll be back right away."
Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, "I'll
take this along, for there will be a little extra pay
on the new tickets, maybe"—and the next moment
he was flying out at the door.

II.

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so
sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so
impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue
wouldn't work; he tried to shout "Stop him,"
but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pur-
sue, but his legs refused to do anything but
tremble; then they gave way under him and let


him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he
was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head
was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not
know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must
pull himself together, and try to overtake that man.
Of course the man could not get back the ticket-
money, but would he throw the tickets away on that
account? No; he would certainly go to the station
and sell them to some one at half-price; and to-day,
too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by Ger-
man custom. These reflections gave him hope and
strength, and he rose and started. But he took only
a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness,
and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a
dread that his movement had been noticed—for the
last round of beer was at his expense; it had not
been paid for, and he hadn't a pfennig. He was a
prisoner—Heaven only could know what might
happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid,
scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to
state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How
could he have been such a fool? What possessed
him to listen to such a manifest adventurer? And
here comes the waiter! He buried himself in the
newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It
filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock
seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes
from them.


Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again!
Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused
—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the
waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed
to be a month at it; then paused two months, and
went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit;
he must take the chances: he must run the gauntlet;
he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about
the neighborhood for five minutes—months and
months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a
despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age
creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning
gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a
table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected
another bill, wandered farther—Parrish's praying
eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping,
his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of
anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish
said to himself, it is now or never! and started for
the door. One step—two steps—three—four
—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking
under him—was that a swift step behind him?—
the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven,
and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—there is a pursuing step!—he turned the


corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out
of his body!

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he
showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and ex-
hilarating fashion:

"Confound those people, they delayed me;
that's why I was gone so long. New man in the
ticket-office, and he didn't know me, and wouldn't
make the exchange because it was irregular; so I
had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—
the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!
—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby,
and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time.
But it's all right now, and everything straight;
your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and
sleeper changed, and I've got the documents for it in
my pocket; also the change—I'll keep it for you.
Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don't let them
go to sleep!"

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word
edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from
the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded,
and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

"Oh, never mind about that," said the Major,
placidly; "that's all right, they know me, every
body knows me—I'll square it next time I'm in
Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great
lot of time to spare, now."


They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment
after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a
clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and
said, in the Russian tongue, "Now, then, if you'll
visé this young man's passport for Petersburg as
quickly as—"

"But, dear sir, I'm not authorized, and the con-
sul has just gone."

"Gone where?"

"Out in the country, where he lives."

"And he'll be back—"

"Not till morning."

"Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I'm Major
Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me.
You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked
you; it'll be all right."

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular;
the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted
at the idea.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what you do," said the
Major. "Here's stamps and the fee—visé it in the
morning, and start it along by mail."

The clerk said, dubiously, "He—well, he may
perhaps do it, and so—"

"May? He will! He knows me—everybody
knows me."

"Very well," said the clerk, "I will tell him what
you say." He looked bewildered, and in a measure
subjugated; and added, timidly: "But—but—you


know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four
hours. There are no accommodations there for so
long a wait."

"Who's going to wait? Not I, if the court
knows herself."

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said,
"Surely, sir, you don't wish it sent to Petersburg!"

"And why not?"

"And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier,
twenty-five miles away? It couldn't do him any
good, in those circumstances."

"Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going
to do any tarrying?"

"Why, you know, of course, they'll stop him at
the frontier if he has no passport."

"Indeed they won't! The Chief Inspector knows
me—everybody does. I'll be responsible for the
young man. You send it straight through to Peters-
burg—Hôtel de l'Europe, care Major Jackson: tell
the consul not to worry, I'm taking all the risks
myself."

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more
appeal:

"You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are
peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in
force."

"What is it?"

"Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without
a passport."


"Mm—damnation!" He said it in English, for
the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual
emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked
up and resumed in Russian: "Oh, it's all right—
label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I'll fix it.
They all know me there—all the authorities—
everybody."

III.

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling
companion, and young Parrish was charmed with
him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit
up the whole region around, and kept it gay and
happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommoda-
ting ways, and knew all about how to do things, and
when to do them, and the best way. So the long
journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who
had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so
many homesick weeks. At last, when the two
travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said
something about passports; then started, as if recol-
lecting something, and added:

"Why, come to think, I don't remember your
bringing my passport away from the consulate.
But you did, didn't you?"

"No; it's coming by mail," said the Major, com-
fortably.


"K—coming—by—mail!" gasped the lad;
and all the dreadful things he had heard about the
terrors and disasters of passportless visitors to
Russia rose in his frightened mind and turned him
white to the lips. "Oh, Major—oh, my goodness,
what will become of me! How could you do such a
thing?"

The Major laid a soothing hand upon the youth's
shoulder and said:

"Now don't you worry, my boy, don't you worry
a bit. I'm taking care of you, and I'm not going
to let any harm come to you. The Chief Inspector
knows me, and I'll explain to him, and it'll be all
right—you'll see. Now don't you give yourself
the least discomfort—I'll fix it all up, easy as
nothing."

Alfred trembled, and felt a great sinking inside,
but he did what he could to conceal his misery, and
to respond with some show of heart to the Major's
kindly pettings and reassurings.

At the frontier he got out and stood on the edge
of the great crowd, and waited in deep anxiety
while the Major plowed his way through the mass
to "explain to the Chief Inspector." It seemed a
cruelly long wait, but at last the Major reappeared.
He said, cheerfully, "Damnation, it's a new in-
spector, and I don't know him!"

Alfred fell up against a pile of trunks, with a des-
pairing, "Oh, dear, dear, I might have known it!"


and was slumping limp and helpless to the ground,
but the Major gathered him up and seated him on a
box, and sat down by him, with a supporting arm
around him, and whispered in his ear:

"Don't worry, laddie, don't—it's going to be
all right; you just trust to me. The sub-inspector's
as near-sighted as a shad. I watched him, and I
know it's so. Now I'll tell you how to do. I'll go
and get my passport chalked, then I'll stop right
yonder inside the grille where you see those peasants
with their packs. You be there, and I'll back up
against the grille, and slip my passport to you
through the bars, then you tag along after the
crowd and hand it in, and trust to Providence and
that shad. Mainly the shad. You'll pull through
all right—now don't you be afraid."

"But, oh dear, dear, your description and mine
don't tally any more than—"

"Oh, that's all right—difference between fifty-
one and nineteen—just entirely imperceptible to
that shad—don't you fret, it's going to come out
as right as nails."

Ten minutes later Alfred was tottering toward the
train, pale, and in a collapse, but he had played the
shad successfully, and was as grateful as an untaxed
dog that has evaded the police.

"I told you so," said the Major, in splendid
spirits. "I knew it would come out all right if you
trusted in Providence like a little trusting child and


didn't try to improve on His ideas—it always
does."

Between the frontier and Petersburg the Major laid
himself out to restore his young comrade's life, and
work up his circulation, and pull him out of his des-
pondency, and make him feel again that life was a
joy and worth living. And so, as a consequence,
the young fellow entered the city in high feather and
marched into the hotel in fine form, and registered
his name. But instead of naming a room, the
clerk glanced at him inquiringly, and waited. The
Major came promptly to the rescue, and said, cor-
dially:

"It's all right—you know me—set him down,
I'm responsible." The clerk looked grave, and
shook his head. The Major added: "It's all right,
it'll be here in twenty-four hours—it's coming
by mail. Here's mine, and his is coming, right
along."

The clerk was full of politeness, full of deference,
but he was firm. He said, in English:

"Indeed, I wish I could accommodate you,
Major, and certainly I would if I could; but I have
no choice, I must ask him to go; I cannot allow him
to remain in the house a moment."

Parrish began to totter, and emitted a moan; the
Major caught him and stayed him with an arm, and
said to the clerk, appealingly:

"Come, you know me—everybody does—just


let him stay here the one night, and I give you my
word—"

The clerk shook his head, and said:

"But, Major, you are endangering me, you are
endangering the house. I—I hate to do such a
thing, but I—I must call the police."

"Hold on, don't do that. Come along, my boy,
and don't you fret—it's going to come out all
right. Hi, there, cabby! Jump in, Parrish.
Palace of the General of the Secret Police—turn
them loose, cabby! Let them go! Make them
whiz! Now we're off, and don't you give yourself
any uneasiness. Prince Bossloffsky knows me,
knows me like a book; he'll soon fix things all right
for us."

They tore through the gay streets and arrived at
the palace, which was brilliantly lighted. But it was
half past eight; the Prince was about going in to
dinner, the sentinel said, and couldn't receive any
one.

"But he'll receive me," said the Major, robustly,
and handed his card. "I'm Major Jackson. Send
it in; it'll be all right."

The card was sent in, under protest, and the Major
and his waif waited in a reception-room for some
time. At length they were sent for, and conducted
to a sumptuous private office and confronted with
the Prince, who stood there gorgeously arrayed and
frowning like a thunder-cloud. The Major stated


his case, and begged for a twenty-four-hour stay of
proceedings until the passport should be forthcom-
ing.

"Oh, impossible!" said the Prince, in faultless
English. "I marvel that you should have done so
insane a thing as to bring the lad into the country
without a passport, Major, I marvel at it; why, it's
ten years in Siberia, and no help for it—catch him!
support him!" for poor Parrish was making another
trip to the floor. "Here—quick, give him this.
There—take another draught; brandy's the thing,
don't you find it so, lad? Now you feel better, poor
fellow. Lie down on the sofa. How stupid it was
of you, Major, to get him into such a horrible
scrape."

The Major eased the boy down with his strong
arms, put a cushion under his head, and whispered
in his ear:

"Look as damned sick as you can! Play it for
all it's worth; he's touched, you see; got a tender
heart under there somewhere; fetch a groan, and
say, 'Oh, mamma, mamma'; it'll knock him out,
sure as guns."

Parrish was going to do these things anyway,
from native impulse, so they came from him
promptly, with great and moving sincerity, and the
Major whispered: "Splendid! Do it again; Bern-
hardt couldn't beat it."

What with the Major's eloquence and the boy's


misery, the point was gained at last; the Prince
struck his colors, and said:

"Have it your way; though you deserve a sharp
lesson and you ought to get it. I give you exactly
twenty-four hours. If the passport is not here
then, don't come near me; it's Siberia without hope
of pardon."

While the Major and the lad poured out their
thanks, the Prince rang in a couple of soldiers, and
in their own language he ordered them to go with
these two people, and not lose sight of the younger
one a moment for the next twenty-four hours; and
if, at the end of that term, the boy could not show a
passport, impound him in the dungeons of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and report.

The unfortunates arrived at the hotel with their
guards, dined under their eyes, remained in Parrish's
room until the Major went off to bed, after cheering
up the said Parrish, then one of the soldiers locked
himself and Parrish in, and the other one stretched
himself across the door outside and soon went off to
sleep.

So also did not Alfred Parrish. The moment he
was alone with the solemn soldier and the voiceless
silence his machine-made cheerfulness began to waste
away, his medicated courage began to give off its
supporting gases and shrink toward normal, and his
poor little heart to shrivel like a raisin. Within
thirty minutes he struck bottom; grief, misery,


fright, despair, could go no lower. Bed? Bed was
not for such as he; bed was not for the doomed, the
lost! Sleep? He was not the Hebrew children, he
could not sleep in the fire! He could only walk
the floor. And not only could, but must. And did,
by the hour. And mourned, and wept, and shud-
dered, and prayed.

Then all-sorrowfully he made his last dispositions,
and prepared himself, as well as in him lay, to meet
his fate. As a final act, he wrote a letter:

"My darling Mother,—When these sad lines
shall have reached you your poor Alfred will be no
more. No; worse than that, far worse! Through
my own fault and foolishness I have fallen into the
hands of a sharper or a lunatic; I do not know
which, but in either case I feel that I am lost.
Sometimes I think he is a sharper, but most of the
time I think he is only mad, for he has a kind, good
heart, I know, and he certainly seems to try the
hardest that ever a person tried to get me out of the
fatal difficulties he has gotten me into.

"In a few hours I shall be one of a nameless
horde plodding the snowy solitudes of Russia, under
the lash, and bound for that land of mystery and
misery and termless oblivion, Siberia! I shall not
live to see it; my heart is broken and I shall die.
Give my picture to her, and ask her to keep it in
memory of me, and to so live that in the appointed
time she may join me in that better world where


there is no marriage nor giving in marriage, and
where there are no more separations, and troubles
never come. Give my yellow dog to Archy Hale,
and the other one to Henry Taylor; my blazer I
give to brother Will, and my fishing things and
Bible.

"There is no hope for me. I cannot escape;
the soldier stands there with his gun and never takes
his eyes off me, just blinks; there is no other move-
ment, any more than if he was dead. I cannot bribe
him, the maniac has my money. My letter of credit
is in my trunk, and may never come—will never
come, I know. Oh, what is to become of me!
Pray for me, darling mother, pray for your poor
Alfred. But it will do no good."

IV.

In the morning Alfred came out looking scraggy
and worn when the Major summoned him to an
early breakfast. They fed their guards, they lit
cigars, the Major loosened his tongue and set it go-
ing, and under its magic influence Alfred gradually
and gratefully became hopeful, measurably cheerful,
and almost happy once more.

But he would not leave the house. Siberia hung
over him black and threatening, his appetite for
sights was all gone, he could not have borne the


shame of inspecting streets and galleries and churches
with a soldier at each elbow and all the world stop-
ping and staring and commenting—no, he would
stay within and wait for the Berlin mail and his fate.
So, all day long the Major stood gallantly by him
in his room, with one soldier standing stiff and
motionless against the door with his musket at his
shoulder, and the other one drowsing in a chair out-
side; and all day long the faithful veteran spun
campaign yarns, described battles, reeled off explo-
sive anecdotes, with unconquerable energy and
sparkle and resolution, and kept the scared student
alive and his pulses functioning. The long day wore
to a close, and the pair, followed by their guards,
went down to the great dining-room and took their
seats.

"The suspense will be over before long, now,"
sighed poor Alfred.

Just then a pair of Englishmen passed by, and one
of them said, "So we'll get no letters from Berlin
to-night."

Parrish's breath began to fail him. The English-
men seated themselves at a near-by table, and the
other one said:

"No, it isn't as bad as that." Parrish's breath-
ing improved. "There is later telegraphic news.
The accident did detain the train formidably, but
that is all. It will arrive here three hours late to-
night."


Parrish did not get to the floor this time, for the
Major jumped for him in time. He had been listen-
ing, and foresaw what would happen. He patted
Parrish on the back, hoisted him out of his chair,
and said, cheerfully:

"Come along, my boy, cheer up, there's abso-
lutely nothing to worry about. I know a way out.
Bother the passport; let it lag a week if it wants
to, we can do without it."

Parrish was too sick to hear him; hope was gone,
Siberia present; he moved off on legs of lead, up-
held by the Major, who walked him to the American
legation, heartening him on the way with assurances
that on his recommendation the minister wouldn't
hesitate a moment to grant him a new passport.

"I had that card up my sleeve all the time," he
said. "The minister knows me—knows me famil-
iarly—chummed together hours and hours under a
pile of other wounded at Cold Harbor; been chum-
mies ever since, in spirit, though we haven't met
much in the body. Cheer up, laddie, everything's
looking splendid! By gracious! I feel as cocky as
a buck angel. Here we are, and our troubles are at
an end! If we ever really had any."

There, alongside the door, was the trade-mark of
the richest and freest and mightiest republic of all
the ages: the pine disk, with the planked eagle
spread upon it, his head and shoulders among the
stars, and his claws full of out-of-date war material;


and at that sight the tears came into Alfred's eyes,
the pride of country rose in his heart, Hail Columbia
boomed up in his breast, and all his fears and sor-
rows vanished away; for here he was safe, safe! not
all the powers of the earth would venture to cross
that threshold to lay a hand upon him!

For economy's sake the mightiest republic's lega-
tions in Europe consist of a room and a half on the
ninth floor, when the tenth is occupied, and the lega-
tion furniture consists of a minister or an ambassador
with a brakeman's salary, a secretary of legation
who sells matches and mends crockery for a living,
a hired girl for interpreter and general utility,
pictures of the American liners, a chromo of the
reigning President, a desk, three chairs, kerosene-
lamp, a cat, a clock, and a cuspidor with motto,
"In God We Trust."

The party climbed up there, followed by the
escort. A man sat at the desk writing official things
on wrapping-paper with a nail. He rose and faced
about; the cat climbed down and got under the
desk; the hired girl squeezed herself up into the
corner by the vodka-jug to make room; the soldiers
squeezed themselves up against the wall alongside
of her, with muskets at shoulder arms. Alfred was
radiant with happiness and the sense of rescue.
The Major cordially shook hands with the official,
rattled off his case in easy and fluent style, and asked
for the desired passport.


The official seated his guests, then said: "Well,
I am only the secretary of legation, you know, and
I wouldn't like to grant a passport while the minister
is on Russian soil. There is far too much responsi-
bility."

"All right, send for him."

The secretary smiled, and said: "That's easier
said than done. He's away up in the wilds, some-
where, on his vacation."

"Ger-reat Scott!" ejaculated the Major.

Alfred groaned; the color went out of his face,
and he began to slowly collapse in his clothes. The
secretary said, wonderingly:

"Why, what are you Great-Scotting about,
Major? The Prince gave you twenty-four hours.
Look at the clock; you're all right; you've half an
hour left; the train is just due; the passport will
arrive in time."

"Man, there's news! The train is three hours
behind time! This boy's life and liberty are wast-
ing away by minutes, and only thirty of them left!
In half an hour he's the same as dead and damned
to all eternity! By God, we must have the pass-
port!"

"Oh, I am dying, I know it!" wailed the lad,
and buried his face in his arms on the desk. A
quick change came over the secretary, his placidity
vanished away, excitement flamed up in his face and
eyes, and he exclaimed:


"I see the whole ghastliness of the situation, but,
Lord help us, what can I do? What can you
suggest?"

"Why, hang it, give him the passport!"

"Impossible! totally impossible! You know
nothing about him; three days ago you had never
heard of him; there's no way in the world to identify
him. He is lost, lost—there's no possibility of sav-
ing him!"

The boy groaned again, and sobbed out, "Lord,
Lord, it's the last of earth for Alfred Parrish!"

Another change came over the secretary.

In the midst of a passionate outburst of pity, vex-
ation, and hopelessness, he stopped short, his man-
ner calmed down, and he asked, in the indifferent
voice which one uses in introducing the subject of
the weather when there is nothing to talk about, "Is
that your name?"

The youth sobbed out a yes.

"Where are you from?"

"Bridgeport."

The secretary shook his head—shook it again—
and muttered to himself. After a moment:

"Born there?"

"No; New Haven."

"Ah-h." The secretary glanced at the Major,
who was listening intently, with blank and unenlight-
ened face, and indicated rather than said, "There is
vodka there, in case the soldiers are thirsty." The


Major sprang up, poured for them, and received
their gratitude. The questioning went on.

"How long did you live in New Haven?"

"Till I was fourteen. Came back two years ago
to enter Yale."

"When you lived there, what street did you live
on?"

"Parker Street."

With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning
in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the sec-
retary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured
vodka again.

"What number?"

"It hadn't any."

The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic
look which said, "Why do you want to torture me
with these foolish things, when I am miserable
enough without it?"

The secretary went on, unheeding: "What kind
of a house was it?"

"Brick—two story."

"Flush with the sidewalk?"

"No, small yard in front."

"Iron fence?"

"No, palings."

The Major poured vodka again—without instruc-
tions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had
cleared and was alive now.

"What do you see when you enter the door?"


"A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a
door at your right."

"Anything else?"

"Hat-rack."

"Room at the right?"

"Parlor."

"Carpet?"

"Yes."

"Kind of carpet?"

"Old-fashioned Wilton."

"Figures?"

"Yes—hawking-party, horseback."

The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six
minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as
he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the
clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the
Major covered the clock from view with his body a
moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then
he refreshed the men—double rations.

"Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?"

"Dining-room."

"Stove?"

"Grate."

"Did your people own the house?"

"Yes."

"Do they own it yet?"

"No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport."

The secretary paused a little, then said, "Did you
have a nickname among your playmates?"


The color slowly rose in the youth's pale cheeks,
and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle
with himself a moment or two, then he said, plain-
tively, "They called me Miss Nancy."

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up
another question:

"Any ornaments in the dining-room?"

"Well, y—no."

"None? None at all?"

"No."

"The mischief! Isn't that a little odd? Think!"

The youth thought and thought; the secretary
waited, slightly panting. At last the imperiled waif
looked up sadly and shook his head.

"Think—think!" cried the Major, in anxious
solicitude; and poured again.

"Come!" said the secretary, "not even a
picture?"

"Oh, certainly! but you said ornament."

"Ah! What did your father think of it?"

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

"Speak," said the secretary.

"Speak," cried the Major, and his trembling hand
poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

"I—I can't tell you what he said," murmured
the boy.

"Quick! quick!" said the secretary; "out with
it; there's no time to lose—home and liberty or
Siberia and death depend upon the answer."


"Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—"

"No matter; out with it, or—"

"He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever
struck!"

"Saved!" shouted the secretary, and seized his
nail and a blank passport. "I identify you; I've
lived in the house, and I painted the picture my-
self!"

"Oh, come to my arms, my poor rescued boy!"
cried the Major. "We will always be grateful to
God that He made this artist!—if He did."


TWO LITTLE TALESfirst story: the man with a message for the
director-general

Some days ago, in this second month of 1900,
a friend made an afternoon call upon me here
in London. We are of that age when men who are
smoking away their time in chat do not talk quite so
much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its
exasperations. By and by this friend began to
abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a
friend who had been inventing something which
could be made very useful to the soldiers in South
Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable
boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and
keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted
to get the government's attention called to it, but he
was an unknown man and knew the great officials
would pay no heed to a message from him.

"This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of
us," I said, interrupting. "Go on."

"But why have you said that? The man spoke
the truth."

"The man spoke a lie. Go on."

"I will prove that he—"


"You can't prove anything of the kind. I am
very old and very wise. You must not argue with
me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on."

"Very well. But you will presently see. I am
not unknown, yet even I was not able to get the
man's message to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department."

"This is another lie. Pray go on."

"But I assure you on my honor that I failed."

"Oh, certainly. I knew that. You didn't need
to tell me."

"Then where is the lie?"

"It is in your intimation that you were not able
to get the Director-General's immediate attention to
the man's message. It is a lie, because you could
have gotten his immediate attention to it."

"I tell you I couldn't. In three months I
haven't accomplished it."

"Certainly. Of course. I could know that with-
out your telling me. You could have gotten his im-
mediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane
way; and so could the other man."

"I did go at it in a sane way."

"You didn't."

"How do you know? What do you know about
the circumstances?"

"Nothing at all. But you didn't go at it in a
sane way. That much I know to a certainty."

"How can you know it, when you don't know
what method I used?"


"I know by the result. The result is perfect
proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am
very old and very w—"

"Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how I proceeded? I think that will settle whether
it was insanity or not."

"No; that has already been settled. But go on,
since you so desire to expose yourself. I am
very o—"

"Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a
courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-
Leather Department, explai—"

"Do you know him personally?"

"No."

"You have scored one for my side. You began
insanely. Go on."

"In the letter I made the great value and inex-
pensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—"

"Call and see him? Of course you did. Score
two against yourself. I am v—"

"He didn't answer for three days."

"Necessarily. Proceed."

"Sent me three gruff lines thanking me for my
trouble, and proposing—"

"Nothing."

"That's it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote
him more elaborately and—"

"Score three—"

"—and got no answer. At the end of a week I
wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for
an answer to that letter."


"Four. Go on."

"An answer came back saying the letter had not
been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the
letter through the post-office, and found that it had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing.
Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In
the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to
a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and pro-
posed an interview for next day, and said that if I
did not hear from him in the mean time I should take
his silence for assent."

"Score five."

"I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair
in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until
half-past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I
waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote
and made another appointment with him for next
day noon."

"Score six."

"He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly,
and kept a chair warm until half-past two. I left
then, and shook the dust of that place from my
shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency,
incapacity, indifference to the army's interests, the
Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department
of the War Office is, in my o—"

"Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have
seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn't
common sense enough to go at a simple and easy
thing like this in a common-sense way. You are


not a curiosity to me; I have personally known
millions and billions like you. You have lost three
months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost
three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine
months altogether. I will now read you a little
tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on
the Director-General at noon to-morrow and transact
your business."

"Splendid! Do you know him?"

"No; but listen to the tale."

second story: how the chimney-sweep got the
ear of the emperorI

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed
by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the
weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the
army had been wasting away with a plague of
dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there
was but little help. The doctors were in despair;
such efficacy as their drugs and their science had
once had—and it was not much at its best—was a
thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of great-
est renown to appear before him for a consultation,
for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very
severe with them, and called them to account for
letting his soldiers die: and asked them if they knew
their trade, or didn't; and were they properly heal-
ers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin,


who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the
most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

"We have done what we could, your Majesty,
and for a good reason it has been little. No medi-
cine and no physician can cure that disease; only
nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old,
and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure
it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they
seem to help nature a little,—a very little,—but as
a rule, they merely do damage."

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man,
and he deluged the doctors with rugged and un-
familiar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease
himself. The news flew from mouth to mouth,
and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and
there was general depression, for few had hope.
The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and
sighed and said:

"The will of God be done. Send for the assas-
sins again, and let us get over with it."

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, and fetched the drug store and emptied it
into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they
were not paid by the job, but by the year.

II

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was
not in society. His rank was too humble for that,


and his employment too base. In fact, it was the
lowest of all employments, for he was second in
command to his father, who emptied cesspools and
drove a night-cart. Tommy's closest friend was
Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of
fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a
good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by
his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these
two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was
on his way to his night-work, and of course was not
in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and
not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way
home from his day's labor, and was blacker than
any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes
on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no
feature of his sable face was distinguishable except
his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of
course it was upon the one subject—the nation's
calamity, the Emperor's disorder. Jimmy was full of
a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

"Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how
to do it."

Tommy was surprised.

"What! You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you little fool, the best doctors can't."

"I don't care: I can do it. I can cure him in
fifteen minutes."


"Oh, come off! What are you giving me?"

"The facts—that's all."

Jimmy's manner was so serious that it sobered
Tommy, who said:

"I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you
in earnest?"

"I give you my word."

"What is the plan? How'll you cure him?"

"Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon."

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was
shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea
before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered
down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He
patted Jimmy's knee affectionately, not minding the
soot, and said:

"I take the laugh all back. I didn't mean any
harm, Jimmy, and I won't do it again. You see, it
seemed so funny, because wherever there's a soldier-
camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a
sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons
there will be flogged with the cat till he can't stand."

"I know it—the idiots!" said Jimmy, with both
tears and anger in his voice. "There's plenty of
watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought
to have died."

"But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?"

"It isn't a notion; it's a fact. Do you know
that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time
back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and
my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It


takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don't
make any difference whether the disease is new or
old; it cures it."

"It's very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the
Emperor ought to be told of it."

"Of course; and my mother has told people,
hoping they could get the word to him; but they
are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don't
know how to manage it."

"Of course they don't, the blunderheads," said
Tommy, scornfully. "I'll get it to him!"

"You? You night-cart polecat!" And it was
Jimmy's turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted
sturdily:

"Oh, laugh if you like; but I'll do it!"

It had such an assured and confident sound that it
made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

"Do you know the Emperor?"

"Do I know him? Why, how you talk! Of
course I don't."

"Then how'll you do it?"

"It's very simple and very easy. Guess. How
would you do it, Jimmy?"

"Send him a letter. I never thought of it till
this minute. But I'll bet that's your way."

"I'll bet it ain't. Tell me, how would you
send it?"

"Why, through the mail, of course."

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

"Now, don't you suppose every crank in the


empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to
say you haven't thought of that?"

"Well—no," said Jimmy, abashed.

"You might have thought of it, if you weren't so
young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even
a common general, or a poet, or an actor, or any-
body that's a little famous gets sick, all the cranks
in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure
quack cures for him. And so, what's bound to
happen when it's the Emperor?"

"I suppose it's worse," said Jimmy, sheepishly.

"Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy:
every single night we cart off as many as six loads
of that kind of letters from the back yard of the
palace, where they're thrown. Eighty thousand
letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody
reads them? Sho! not a single one. It's what
would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which
you won't, I reckon?"

"No," sighed Jimmy, crushed.

"But it's all right, Jimmy. Don't you fret:
there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'll get
the word to him."

"Oh, if you only could, Tommy, I should love
you forever!"

"I'll do it, I tell you. Don't you worry; you
depend on me."

"Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so
much. You're not like other boys: they never
know anything. How'll you manage, Tommy?"


Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself
for reposeful talk, and said:

"Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks
he's a butcher because he goes around with a basket
and sells cat's meat and rotten livers? Well, to
begin with, I'll tell him."

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined,
and said:

"Now, Tommy, it's a shame to talk so. You
know my heart's in it, and it's not right."

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

"Don't you be troubled, Jimmy. I know what
I'm about. Pretty soon you'll see. That half-
breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells
chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she's his closest
friend, and I'll ask him to; then, by request, she'll
tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on
the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell
her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-
shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of
police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the
captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate
will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and
the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff
will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will
tell the President of the Council, and the President
of the Council will tell the—"

"By George, but it's a wonderful scheme,
Tommy! How ever did you—"

"—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice,


and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and
the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the
White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the
Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker
of the House, and the Speaker—"

"Go it, Tommy; you're 'most there!"

"—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the
Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and
the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and
the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting,
and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamber-
lain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the
Master of the Household, and the Master of the
Household will tell the little pet page that fans the
flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on
his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the
game's made!"

"I've got to get up and hurrah a couple of times,
Tommy. It's the grandest idea that ever was.
What ever put it into your head?"

"Sit down and listen, and I'll give you some
wisdom—and don't you ever forget it as long as
you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend
you've got, and the one you couldn't and wouldn't
ever refuse anything in the world to?"

"Why, it's you, Tommy. You know that."

"Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor
of the cat's-meat man. Well, you don't know him,
and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that
kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after


you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness
—any kindness, he don't care what it is. Now, I'll
ask you: which is the most common-sensible—for
you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman
about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me
to do it for you?"

"To get you to do it for me, of course. I
wouldn't ever have thought of that, Tommy; it's
splendid!"

"It's a philosophy, you see. Mighty good word—
and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the
world, little and big, has one special friend, a friend
that he's glad to do favors to—not sour about it,
but glad—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I
don't care where you start, you can get at anybody's
ear that you want to—I don't care how low you are,
nor how high he is. And it's so simple: you've
only to find the first friend, that is all; that ends
your part of the work. He finds the next friend
himself, and that one finds the third, and so on,
friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and
you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or
as low as you like."

"It's just beautiful, Tommy."

"It's as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you
ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is
a fool. He goes to a stranger without any intro-
duction, or writes him a letter, and of course he
strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously
right. Now, the Emperor don't know me, but



Jimmy saves the Emperor




that's no matter—he'll eat his watermelon to-mor-
row. You'll see. Hi-hi—stop! It's the cat's-
meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I'll overtake him."

He did overtake him, and said:

"Say, will you do me a favor?"

"Will I? Well, I should say! I'm your man.
Name it, and see me fly!"

"Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down every-
thing and carry this message to her first-best friend,
and tell the friend to pass it along." He worded the
message, and said, "Now, then, rush!"

The next moment the chimney-sweep's word to
the Emperor was on its way.

III

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors
sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room,
and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was
in very bad case. They could not hide it from them-
selves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-
store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for
they were expecting that result. The poor emaci-
ated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed,
and the page that was his darling was fanning the
flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard
the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the
Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in
at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come.
Lightly and swiftly the page tiptoed his way to his
dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:


"Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh,
don't fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and
he is saved."

"On my head be it. He shall eat it!"

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh
watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that
the Emperor was sound and well again, and had
hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land,
and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His
gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to de-
vise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his
benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and
called the page, and asked him if he had invented
that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the
Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to de-
vising again. The Master was an earl; he would
make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which
belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had
him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of
the remedy. But the Master was an honest man,
and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He
was sent away, and the Emperor thought some
more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would
make him an earl, and give him a large income.
But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord
in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his
Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the


First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and
he had to sit down and think out a further and
becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and
hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High
Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the
cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward
his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective
brought the word. He had traced the cure down
to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The
Emperor said, with deep feeling:

"Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not re-
gret it!"

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the
next best ones he had, too. They were too large
for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all
right, and everything as it should be.

conclusion to the first story

"There—do you get the idea?"

"I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be
as you have said. I will transact the business to-
morrow. I intimately know the Director-General's
nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduc-
tion, with a word to say my matter is of real im-
portance to the government. I will take it along,
without an appointment, and send it in, with my card,
and I shan't have to wait so much as half a minute."

That turned out true to the letter, and the govern-
ment adopted the boots.


ABOUT PLAY-ACTINGI

I have a project to suggest. But first I will write
a chapter of introduction.

I have just been witnessing a remarkable play, here
at the Burg Theatre in Vienna. I do not know of
any play that much resembles it. In fact, it is such
a departure from the common laws of the drama
that the name "play" doesn't seem to fit it quite
snugly. However, whatever else it may be, it is in
any case a great and stately metaphysical poem,
and deeply fascinating. "Deeply fascinating" is
the right term, for the audience sat four hours and
five minutes without thrice breaking into applause,
except at the close of each act; sat rapt and silent
—fascinated. This piece is "The Master of Pal-
myra." It is twenty years old; yet I doubt if you
have ever heard of it. It is by Wilbrandt, and is
his masterpiece and the work which is to make his
name permanent in German literature. It has never
been played anywhere except in Berlin and in the
great Burg Theatre in Vienna. Yet whenever it is
put on the stage it packs the house, and the free list


is suspended. I know people who have seen it ten
times; they know the most of it by heart; they do
not tire of it; and they say they shall still be quite
willing to go and sit under its spell whenever they
get the opportunity.

There is a dash of metempsychosis in it—and it
is the strength of the piece. The play gave me the
sense of the passage of a dimly connected procession
of dream-pictures. The scene of it is Palmyra in
Roman times. It covers a wide stretch of time—I
don't know how many years—and in the course of
it the chief actress is reincarnated several times:
four times she is a more or less young woman,
and once she is a lad. In the first act she is Zoë—
a Christian girl who has wandered across the desert
from Damascus to try to Christianize the Zeus-wor-
shiping pagans of Palmyra. In this character she
is wholly spiritual, a religious enthusiast, a devotee
who covets martyrdom—and gets it.

After many years she appears in the second act as
Phœbe, a graceful and beautiful young light-o'-love
from Rome, whose soul is all for the shows and
luxuries and delights of this life—a dainty and
capricious featherhead, a creature of shower and
sunshine, a spoiled child, but a charming one.

In the third act, after an interval of many years,
she reappears as Persida, mother of a daughter in
the fresh bloom of youth. She is now a sort of
combination of her two earlier selves: in religious
loyalty and subjection she is Zoë; in triviality of


character and shallowness of judgment—together
with a touch of vanity in dress—she is Phœbe.

After a lapse of years she appears in the fourth
act as Nymphas, a beautiful boy, in whose character
the previous incarnations are engagingly mixed.

And after another stretch of years all these heredi-
ties are joined in the Zenobia of the fifth act—a
person of gravity, dignity, sweetness, with a heart
filled with compassion for all who suffer, and a hand
prompt to put into practical form the heart's benig-
nant impulses.

You will easily concede that the actress who pro-
poses to discriminate nicely these five characters,
and play them to the satisfaction of a cultivated and
exacting audience, has her work cut out for her.
Mme. Hohenfels has made these parts her peculiar
property; and she is well able to meet all the require-
ments. You perceive, now, where the chief part of
the absorbing fascination of this piece lies; it is in
watching this extraordinary artist melt these five
characters into each other—grow, shade by shade,
out of one and into another through a stretch of
four hours and five minutes.

There are a number of curious and interesting
features in this piece. For instance, its hero,
Apelles, young, handsome, vigorous, in the first
act, remains so all through the long flight of years
covered by the five acts. Other men, young in the
first act, are touched with gray in the second, are
old and racked with infirmities in the third; in the


fourth, all but one are gone to their long home, and
he is a blind and helpless hulk of ninety or a hundred
years. It indicates that the stretch of time covered
by the piece is seventy years or more. The scenery
undergoes decay, too—the decay of age, assisted
and perfected by a conflagration. The fine new
temples and palaces of the second act are by and by
a wreck of crumbled walls and prostrate columns,
mouldy, grass-grown, and desolate; but their former
selves are still recognizable in their ruins. The aging
men and the aging scenery together convey a pro-
found illusion of that long lapse of time: they make
you live it yourself! You leave the theatre with the
weight of a century upon you.

Another strong effect: Death, in person, walks
about the stage in every act. So far as I could
make out, he was supposedly not visible to any ex-
cepting two persons—the one he came for and
Apelles. He used various costumes: but there
was always more black about them than any other
tint; and so they were always sombre. Also they
were always deeply impressive, and indeed awe-
inspiring. The face was not subjected to changes,
but remained the same, first and last—a ghastly
white. To me he was always welcome, he seemed
so real—the actual Death, not a play-acting artifi-
ciality. He was of a solemn and stately carriage;
he had a deep voice, and used it with a noble
dignity. Wherever there was a turmoil of merry-
making or fighting or feasting or chaffing or quarrel-


ing, or a gilded pageant, or other manifestation of our
trivial and fleeting life, into it drifted that black figure
with the corpse-face, and looked its fateful look and
passed on; leaving its victim shuddering and smitten.
And always its coming made the fussy human pack
seem infinitely pitiful and shabby and hardly worth
the attention of either saving or damning.

In the beginning of the first act the young girl Zoë
appears by some great rocks in the desert, and sits
down, exhausted, to rest. Presently arrive a pauper
couple, stricken with age and infirmities; and they
begin to mumble and pray to the Spirit of Life, who
is said to inhabit that spot. The Spirit of Life
appears; also Death—uninvited. They are (sup-
posably) invisible. Death, tall, black-robed, corpse-
faced, stands motionless and waits. The aged
couple pray to the Spirit of Life for a means to
prop up their existence and continue it. Their
prayer fails. The Spirit of Life prophesies Zoë's
martyrdom: it will take place before night. Soon
Apelles arrives, young and vigorous and full of
enthusiasm; he has led a host against the Persians
and won the battle; he is the pet of fortune,
rich, honored, beloved, "Master of Palmyra." He
has heard that whoever stretches himself out on one of
those rocks there, and asks for a deathless life, can
have his wish. He laughs at the tradition, but wants
to make the trial anyway. The invisible Spirit of Life
warns him: "Life without end can be regret with-
out end." But he persists: let him keep his youth,


his strength, and his mental faculties unimpaired,
and he will take all the risks. He has his desire.

From this time forth, act after act, the troubles
and sorrows and misfortunes and humiliations of life
beat upon him without pity or respite; but he will
not give up, he will not confess his mistake. When-
ever he meets Death he still furiously defies him—
but Death patiently waits. He, the healer of sor-
rows, is man's best friend: the recognition of this
will come. As the years drag on, and on, and on,
the friends of the Master's youth grow old; and one
by one they totter to the grave: he goes on with his
proud fight, and will not yield. At length he is
wholly alone in the world; all his friends are dead;
last of all, his darling of darlings, his son, the lad
Nymphas, who dies in his arms. His pride is broken
now; and he would welcome Death, if Death would
come, if Death would hear his prayers and give him
peace. The closing act is fine and pathetic.
Apelles meets Zenobia, the helper of all who
suffer, and tells her his story, which moves her pity.
By common report she is endowed with more than
earthly powers; and, since he cannot have the boon
of death, he appeals to her to drown his memory in
forgetfulness of his griefs—forgetfulness, "which
is death's equivalent." She says (roughly trans-
lated), in an exaltation of compassion:
"Come to me!Kneel; and may the power be granted meTo cool the fires of this poor tortured brain,And bring it peace and healing."


He kneels. From her hand, which she lays upon
his head, a mysterious influence steals through him;
and he sinks into a dreamy tranquillity.

"Oh, if I could but so driftThrough this soft twilight into the night of peace,Never to wake again!(Raising his hand, as if in benediction.)O mother earth, farewell!Gracious thou wert to me. Farewell!Apelles goes to rest."

Death appears behind him and encloses the up-
lifted hand in his. Apelles shudders, wearily and
slowly turns, and recognizes his life-long adversary.
He smiles and puts all his gratitude into one simple
and touching sentence, "Ich danke dir," and dies.

Nothing, I think, could be more moving, more
beautiful, than this close. This piece is just one
long, soulful, sardonic laugh at human life. Its title
might properly be "Is Life a Failure?" and leave
the five acts to play with the answer. I am not at
all sure that the author meant to laugh at life. I
only notice that he has done it. Without putting
into words any ungracious or discourteous things
about life, the episodes in the piece seem to be say-
ing all the time, inarticulately: "Note what a silly,
poor thing human life is; how childish its ambitions,
how ridiculous its pomps, how trivial its dignities,
how cheap its heroisms, how capricious its course,
how brief its flight, how stingy in happiness, how
opulent in miseries, how few its prides, how multi-
tudinous its humiliations, how comic its tragedies,


how tragic its comedies, how wearisome and monot-
onous its repetition of its stupid history through the
ages, with never the introduction of a new detail, how
hard it has tried, from the Creation down, to play
itself upon its possessor as a boon, and has never
proved its case in a single instance!"

Take note of some of the details of the piece.
Each of the five acts contains an independent tragedy
of its own. In each act somebody's edifice of hope,
or of ambition, or of happiness, goes down in ruins.
Even Apelles' perennial youth is only a long
tragedy, and his life a failure. There are two mar-
tyrdoms in the piece; and they are curiously and
sarcastically contrasted. In the first act the pagans
persecute Zoë, the Christian girl, and a pagan mob
slaughters her. In the fourth act those same
pagans—now very old and zealous—are become
Christians, and they persecute the pagans: a mob
of them slaughters the pagan youth, Nymphas,
who is standing up for the old gods of his
fathers. No remark is made about this picturesque
failure of civilization; but there it stands, as an un-
worded suggestion that civilization, even when
Christianized, was not able wholly to subdue the
natural man in that old day—just as in our day, the
spectacle of a shipwrecked French crew clubbing
women and children who tried to climb into the life-
boats suggests that civilization has not succeeded in
entirely obliterating the natural man even yet.
Common sailors! A year ago, in Paris, at a fire,


the aristocracy of the same nation clubbed girls and
women out of the way to save themselves. Civiliza-
tion tested at top and bottom both, you see. And
in still another panic of fright we have this same
"tough" civilization saving its honor by condemn-
ing an innocent man to multiform death, and hug-
ging and whitewashing the guilty one.

In the second act a grand Roman official is not
above trying to blast Apelles' reputation by falsely
charging him with misappropriating public moneys.
Apelles, who is too proud to endure even the sus-
picion of irregularity, strips himself to naked pov-
erty to square the unfair account; and his troubles
begin: the blight which is to continue and spread
strikes his life; for the frivolous, pretty creature
whom he has brought from Rome has no taste for
poverty, and agrees to elope with a more competent
candidate. Her presence in the house has previ-
ously brought down the pride and broken the heart
of Apelles' poor old mother; and her life is a
failure. Death comes for her, but is willing to trade
her for the Roman girl; so the bargain is struck
with Apelles, and the mother spared for the present.

No one's life escapes the blight. Timoleus, the
gay satirist of the first two acts, who scoffed at the
pious hypocrisies and money-grubbing ways of the
great Roman lords, is grown old and fat and blear-
eyed and racked with disease in the third, has lost
his stately purities, and watered the acid of his wit.
His life has suffered defeat. Unthinkingly he swears


by Zeus—from ancient habit—and then quakes
with fright; for a fellow-communicant is passing by.
Reproached by a pagan friend of his youth for his
apostasy, he confesses that principle, when unsup-
ported by an assenting stomach, has to climb down.
One must have bread; and "the bread is Christian
now." Then the poor old wreck, once so proud of
iron rectitude, hobbles away, coughing and barking.

In the same act Apelles gives his sweet young
Christian daughter and her fine young pagan lover
his consent and blessing, and makes them utterly
happy—for five minutes. Then the priest and the
mob come, to tear them apart and put the girl in a
nunnery; for marriage between the sects is forbid-
den. Apelles' wife could dissolve the rule; and she
wants to do it: but under priestly pressure she
wavers; then, fearing that in providing happiness for
her child she would be committing a sin dangerous
to herself, she goes over to the opposition, throwing
the casting vote for the nunnery. The blight has
fallen upon the young couple; their life is a failure.

In the fourth act, Longinus, who made such a
prosperous and enviable start in the first act, is left
alone in the desert, sick, blind, helpless, incredibly
old, to die: not a friend left in the world—another
ruined life. And in that act, also, Apelles' wor-
shiped boy, Nymphas, done to death by the mob,
breathes out his last sigh in his father's arms—one
more failure. In the fifth act, Apelles himself
dies, and is glad to do it; he who so ignorantly
rejoiced, only four acts before, over the splendid


present of an earthly immortality—the very worst
failure of the lot!

II

Now I approach my project. Here is the theatre
list for Saturday, May 7, 1898—cut from the
advertising columns of a New York paper:


Now I arrive at my project, and make my sug-
gestion. From the look of this lightsome feast, I
conclude that what you need is a tonic. Send for
"The Master of Palmyra." You are trying to
make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its
sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in
it. You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You are
neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it
will be atrophied. You are eating too much mental
sugar; you will bring on Bright's disease of the in-
tellect. You need a tonic; you need it very much.
Send for "The Master of Palmyra." You will not
need to translate it: its story is as plain as a pro-
cession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion. Now I wish to put
an annex to it. And that is this: It is right and
wholesome to have those light comedies and enter-
taining shows; and I shouldn't wish to see them
diminished. But none of us is always in the comedy
spirit: we have our graver moods; they come to us
all; the lightest of us cannot escape them. These
moods have their appetites—healthy and legitimate
appetites—and there ought to be some way of satis-
fying them. It seems to me that New York ought
to have one theatre devoted to tragedy. With her
three millions of population, and seventy outside
millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can
support it. America devotes more time, labor,
money, and attention to distributing literary and


musical culture among the general public than does
any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her
neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all
the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high
literary taste and lofty emotion—the tragic stage.
To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the
culture-wagon with a crippled team. Nowadays,
when a mood comes which only Shakspeare can set
to music, what must we do? Read Shakspeare our-
selves! Isn't it pitiful? It is playing an organ solo
on a jew's-harp. We can't read. None but the
Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played "Hamlet"
a hundred nights in New York. With three times
the population, how often is "Hamlet" played now
in a year? If Booth were back now in his prime,
how often could he play it in New York? Some
will say twenty-five nights. I will say three hun-
dred, and say it with confidence. The tragedians
are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence
which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?
During the first half of this century tragedies and
great tragedians were as common with us as farce
and comedy; and it was the same in England. Now
we have not a tragedian, I believe; and London,
with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I
think. It is an astonishing thing, when you come
to consider it. Vienna remains upon the ancient
basis: there has been no change. She sticks to the


former proportions: a number of rollicking come-
dies, admirably played, every night; and also every
night at the Burg Theatre—that wonder of the
world for grace and beauty and richness and splen-
dor and costliness—a majestic drama of depth and
seriousness, or a standard old tragedy. It is only
within the last dozen years that men have learned to
do miracles on the stage in the way of grand and
enchanting scenic effects; and it is at such a time as
this that we have reduced our scenery mainly to
different breeds of parlors and varying aspects of
furniture and rugs. I think we must have a Burg in
New York, and Burg scenery, and a great company
like the Burg company. Then, with a tragedy-tonic
once or twice a month, we shall enjoy the comedies
all the better. Comedy keeps the heart sweet; but
we all know that there is wholesome refreshment for
both mind and heart in an occasional climb among
the pomps of the intellectual snow-summits built by
Shakspeare and those others. Do I seem to be
preaching? It is out of my line: I only do it be-
cause the rest of the clergy seem to be on vacation.


DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES

Vienna, January 5.—I find in this morning's
papers the statement that the Government of
the United States has paid to the two members of
the Peace Commission entitled to receive money for
their services $100,000 each for their six weeks'
work in Paris.

I hope that this is true. I will allow myself the
satisfaction of considering that it is true, and of
treating it as a thing finished and settled.

It is a precedent; and ought to be a welcome one
to our country. A precedent always has a chance
to be valuable (as well as the other way); and its
best chance to be valuable (or the other way) is
when it takes such a striking form as to fix a whole
nation's attention upon it. If it come justified out
of the discussion which will follow, it will find a
career ready and waiting for it.

We realize that the edifice of public justice is built
of precedents, from the ground upward; but we do
not always realize that all the other details of our
civilization are likewise built of precedents. The
changes also which they undergo are due to the in-


trusion of new precedents, which hold their ground
against opposition, and keep their place. A pre-
cedent may die at birth, or it may live—it is mainly
a matter of luck. If it be imitated once, it has a
chance; if twice a better chance; if three times it is
reaching a point where account must be taken of it;
if four, five, or six times, it has probably come to
stay—for a whole century, possibly. If a town
start a new bow, or a new dance, or a new temper-
ance project, or a new kind of hat, and can get the
precedent adopted in the next town, the career of
that precedent is begun; and it will be unsafe to bet
as to where the end of its journey is going to be. It
may not get this start at all, and may have no career;
but if a crown prince introduce the precedent, it will
attract vast attention, and its chances for a career
are so great as to amount almost to a certainty.

For a long time we have been reaping damage
from a couple of disastrous precedents. One is
the precedent of shabby pay to public servants
standing for the power and dignity of the Republic
in foreign lands; the other is a precedent condemn-
ing them to exhibit themselves officially in clothes
which are not only without grace or dignity, but are
a pretty loud and pious rebuke to the vain and
frivolous costumes worn by the other officials. To
our day an American ambassador's official costume
remains under the reproach of these defects. At a
public function in a European court all foreign rep-
resentatives except ours wear clothes which in some


way distinguish them from the unofficial throng, and
mark them as standing for their countries. But our
representative appears in a plain black swallow-tail,
which stands for neither country nor people. It
has no nationality. It is found in all countries; it
is as international as a night-shirt. It has no par-
ticular meaning: but our Government tries to give it
one; it tries to make it stand for Republican Sim-
plicity, modesty and unpretentiousness. Tries, and
without doubt fails, for it is not conceivable that this
loud ostentation of simplicity deceives any one.
The statue that advertises its modesty with a fig-
leaf really brings its modesty under suspicion.
Worn officially, our nonconforming swallow-tail is a
declaration of ungracious independence in the mat-
ter of manners, and is uncourteous. It says to all
around: "In Rome we do not choose to do as
Rome does; we refuse to respect your tastes and
your traditions; we make no sacrifices to any one's
customs and prejudices; we yield no jot to the
courtesies of life; we prefer our manners, and in-
trude them here."

That is not the true American spirit, and those
clothes misrepresent us. When a foreigner comes
among us and trespasses against our customs and
our code of manners, we are offended, and justly so:
but our Government commands our ambassadors to
wear abroad an official dress which is an offense
against foreign manners and customs; and the dis-
credit of it falls upon the nation.


We did not dress our public functionaries in un-
distinguished raiment before Franklin's time; and
the change would not have come if he had been an
obscurity. But he was such a colossal figure in the
world that whatever he did of an unusual nature
attracted the world's attention, and became a pre-
cedent. In the case of clothes, the next representa-
tive after him, and the next, had to imitate it. After
that, the thing was custom: and custom is a petri-
faction; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a
century. We imagine that our queer official cos-
tumery was deliberately devised to symbolize our Re-
publican Simplicity—a quality which we have never
possessed, and are too old to acquire now, if we had
any use for it or any leaning toward it. But it is
not so; there was nothing deliberate about it: it
grew naturally and heedlessly out of the precedent
set by Franklin.

If it had been an intentional thing, and based
upon a principle, it would not have stopped where
it did: we should have applied it further. Instead
of clothing our admirals and generals, for courts-
martial and other public functions, in superb dress
uniforms blazing with color and gold, the Govern-
ment would put them in swallow-tails and white
cravats, and make them look like ambassadors and
lackeys. If I am wrong in making Franklin the
father of our curious official clothes, it is no matter
—he will be able to stand it.

It is my opinion—and I make no charge for the


suggestion—that, whenever we appoint an ambas-
sador or a minister, we ought to confer upon him the
temporary rank of admiral or general, and allow
him to wear the corresponding uniform at public
functions in foreign countries. I would recommend
this for the reason that it is not consonant with the
dignity of the United States of America that her
representative should appear upon occasions of state
in a dress which makes him glaringly conspicuous;
and that is what his present undertaker-outfit does
when it appears, with its dismal smudge, in the
midst of the butterfly splendors of a Continental
court. It is a most trying position for a shy man, a
modest man, a man accustomed to being like other
people. He is the most striking figure present;
there is no hiding from the multitudinous eyes. It
would be funny, if it were not such a cruel spectacle,
to see the hunted creature in his solemn sables
scuffling around in that sea of vivid color, like a
mislaid Presbyterian in perdition. We are all aware
that our representative's dress should not compel too
much attention; for anybody but an Indian chief
knows that that is a vulgarity. I am saying these
things in the interest of our national pride and
dignity. Our representative is the flag. He is the
Republic. He is the United States of America.
And when these embodiments pass by, we do not
want them scoffed at; we desire that people shall
be obliged to concede that they are worthily clothed,
and politely.


Our Government is oddly inconsistent in this mat-
ter of official dress. When its representative is a
civilian who has not been a soldier, it restricts him
to the black swallow-tail and white tie; but if he is a
civilian who has been a soldier, it allows him to
wear the uniform of his former rank as an official
dress. When General Sickles was minister to Spain,
he always wore, when on official duty, the dress
uniform of a major-general. When General Grant
visited foreign courts, he went handsomely and
properly ablaze in the uniform of a full general, and
was introduced by diplomatic survivals of his own
Presidential Administration. The latter, by official
necessity, went in the meek and lowly swallow-tail
—a deliciously sarcastic contrast: the one dress
representing the honest and honorable dignity of the
nation; the other, the cheap hypocrisy of the Re-
publican Simplicity tradition. In Paris our present
representative can perform his official functions rep-
utably clothed; for he was an officer in the Civil
War. In London our late ambassador was similarly
situated; for he also was an officer in the Civil
War. But Mr. Choate must represent the Great
Republic—even at official breakfast at seven in the
morning—in that same old funny swallow-tail.

Our Government's notions about proprieties of
costume are indeed very, very odd—as suggested
by that last fact. The swallow-tail is recognized the
world over as not wearable in the daytime; it is a
night-dress, and a night-dress only—a night-shirt is


not more so. Yet, when our representative makes
an official visit in the morning, he is obliged by his
Government to go in that night-dress. It makes the
very cab-horses laugh.

The truth is, that for a while during the present
century, and up to something short of forty years
ago, we had a lucid interval, and dropped the
Republican Simplicity sham, and dressed our foreign
representatives in a handsome and becoming official
costume. This was discarded by and by, and the
swallow-tail substituted. I believe it is not now
known which statesman brought about this change;
but we all know that, stupid as he was as to diplo-
matic proprieties in dress, he would not have sent his
daughter to a state ball in a corn-shucking costume,
nor to a corn-shucking in a state ball costume, to be
harshly criticised as an ill-mannered offender against
the proprieties of custom in both places. And we
know another thing, viz.: that he himself would not
have wounded the tastes and feelings of a family of
mourners by attending a funeral in their house in a
costume which was an offense against the dignities
and decorum prescribed by tradition and sanctified
by custom. Yet that man was so heedless as not to
reflect that all the social customs of civilized peoples
are entitled to respectful observance, and that no
man with a right spirit of courtesy in him ever has
any disposition to transgress these customs.

There is still another argument for a rational
diplomatic dress—a business argument. We are a


trading nation; and our representative is our busi-
ness agent. If he is respected, esteemed, and liked
where he is stationed, he can exercise an influence
which can extend our trade and forward our pros-
perity. A considerable number of his business
activities have their field in his social relations; and
clothes which do not offend against local manners
and customs and prejudices are a valuable part of his
equipment in this matter—would be, if Franklin had
died earlier.

I have not done with gratis suggestions yet. We
made a great and valuable advance when we insti-
tuted the office of ambassador. That lofty rank
endows its possessor with several times as much in-
fluence, consideration, and effectiveness as the rank
of minister bestows. For the sake of the country's
dignity and for the sake of her advantage commer-
cially, we should have ambassadors, not ministers, at
the great courts of the world.

But not at present salaries! No; if we are to
maintain present salaries, let us make no more am-
bassadors; and let us unmake those we have already
made. The great position, without the means of re-
spectably maintaining it—there could be no wisdom
in that. A foreign representative, to be valuable to
his country, must be on good terms with the officials
of the capital and with the rest of the influential folk.
He must mingle with this society; he cannot sit at
home—it is not business, it butters no commercial
parsnips. He must attend the dinners, banquets,


suppers, balls, receptions, and must return these
hospitalities. He should return as good as he gets,
too, for the sake of the dignity of his country, and
for the sake of Business. Have we ever had a min-
ister or an ambassador who could do this on his
salary? No—not once, from Franklin's time to
ours. Other countries understand the commercial
value of properly lining the pockets of their repre-
sentatives; but apparently our Government has not
learned it. England is the most successful trader of
the several trading nations; and she takes good care
of the watchmen who keep guard in her commercial
towers. It has been a long time, now, since we
needed to blush for our representatives abroad. It
has become custom to send our fittest. We send
men of distinction, cultivation, character—our
ablest, our choicest, our best. Then we cripple
their efficiency through the meagreness of their pay.
Here is a list of salaries for English and American
ministers and ambassadors:

city.salaries.american.english.Paris$17,500$45,000Berlin17,50040,000Vienna12,00040,000Constantinople10,00040,000St. Petersburg17,50039,000Rome12,00035,000Washington—32,500

Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at
Washington, has a very fine house besides—at no
damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house-rent; they live
in palaces owned by England. Our representatives
pay house-rent out of their salaries. You can judge
by the above figures what kind of houses the United
States of America has been used to living in abroad,
and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.
There is not a salary in our list which would properly
house the representative receiving it, and, in addi-
tion, pay $3,000 toward his family's bacon and
doughnuts—the strange but economical and custom-
ary fare of the American ambassador's household,
except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers
are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations
not only have generous salaries, but their Govern-
ments provide them with money wherewith to pay a
considerable part of their hospitality bills. I believe
our Government pays no hospitality bills except those
incurred by the navy. Through this concession to
the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign
parts; and certainly that is well and politic. But
why the Government does not think it well and poli-
tic that our diplomats should be able to do us like
credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsist-
encies which have been puzzling me ever since I
stopped trying to understand baseball and took up
statesmanship as a pastime.


To return to the matter of house-rent. Good
houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are
not to be had at small figures. Consequently, our
foreign representatives have been accustomed to live
in garrets—sometimes on the roof. Being poor
men, it has been the best they could do on the salary
which the Government has paid them. How could
they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?
It was impossible. It would have exhausted the
salary in three months. Still, it was their official
duty to entertain the influentials after some sort of
fashion; and they did the best they could with their
limited purse. In return for champagne they fur-
nished lemonade; in return for game they furnished
ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in
return for liquors they furnished condensed milk;
in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered
flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for
the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they
draped the stove with the American flag; in return
for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads
by the family; in return for the ball—but they
didn't return the ball, except in cases where the
United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration? It can hardly be called
that. I saw nearly the equivalent of it once, a good
many years ago. A minister was trying to create
influential friends for a project which might be worth
ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Re-
public; and our Government had furnished him ham


and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.
The minister did not succeed. He might not have
succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to
have been—$50,000 or $60,000 a year—but his
chances would have been very greatly improved.
And in any case, he and his dinners and his country
would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted
and pitied by the compassionate.

Any experienced "drummer" will testify that,
when you want to do business, there is no economy
in ham and lemonade. The drummer takes his
country customer to the theatre, the opera, the
circus; dines him, wines him, entertains him all the
day and all the night in luxurious style; and plays
upon his human nature in all seductive ways. For he
knows, by old experience, that this is the best way
to get a profitable order out of him. He has his
reward. All Governments except our own play the
same policy, with the same end in view; and they
also have their reward. But ours refuses to do
business by business ways, and sticks to ham and
lemonade. This is the most expensive diet known
to the diplomatic service of the world.

Ours is the only country of first importance that
pays its foreign representatives trifling salaries. If
we were poor, we could not find great fault with
these economies, perhaps—at least one could find a
sort of plausible excuse for them. But we are not
poor; and the excuse fails. As shown above, some
of our important diplomatic representatives receive


$12,000; others $17,500. These salaries are all ham
and lemonade, and unworthy of the flag. When we
have a rich ambassador in London or Paris, he lives
as the ambassador of a country like ours ought to
live, and it costs him $100,000 a year to do it. But
why should we allow him to pay that out of his
private pocket? There is nothing fair about it; and
the Republic is no proper subject for any one's
charity. In several cases our salaries of $12,000
should be $50,000; and all of the salaries of $17,-
500 ought to be $75,000 or $100,000, since we pay
no representative's house-rent. Our State Depart-
ment realizes the mistake which we are making, and
would like to rectify it, but it has not the power.

When a young girl reaches eighteen she is recog-
nized as being a woman. She adds six inches to her
skirt, she unplaits her dangling braids and balls her
hair on top of her head, she stops sleeping with her
little sister and has a room to herself, and becomes
in many ways a thundering expense. But she is in
society now; and papa has to stand it. There is no
avoiding it. Very well. The Great Republic length-
ened her skirts last year, balled up her hair, and
entered the world's society. This means that, if
she would prosper and stand fair with society, she
must put aside some of her dearest and darlingest
young ways and superstitions, and do as society
does. Of course, she can decline if she wants to;
but this would be unwise. She ought to realize,
now that she has "come out," that this is a right


and proper time to change a part of her style. She
is in Rome; and it has long been granted that when
one is in Rome it is good policy to do as Rome
does. To advantage Rome? No—to advantage
herself.

If our Government has really paid representatives
of ours on the Paris Commission $100,000 apiece
for six weeks' work, I feel sure that it is the best
cash investment the nation has made in many years.
For it seems quite impossible that, with that pre-
cedent on the books, the Government will be able to
find excuses for continuing its diplomatic salaries at
the present mean figure.

P. S.—Vienna, January 10.—I see, by this
morning's telegraphic news, that I am not to be the
new ambassador here, after all. This—well, I
hardly know what to say. I—well, of course, I do
not care anything about it; but it is at least a sur-
prise. I have for many months been using my in-
fluence at Washington to get this diplomatic see
expanded into an ambassadorship, with the idea, of
course, th— But never mind. Let it go. It is of
no consequence. I say it calmly; for I am calm.
But at the same time— However, the subject has
no interest for me, and never had. I never really
intended to take the place, anyway—I made up my
mind to it months and months ago, nearly a year.
But now, while I am calm, I would like to say this—
that so long as I shall continue to possess an Ameri-
can's proper pride in the honor and dignity of his


country, I will not take any ambassadorship in the
gift of the flag at a salary short of $75,000 a year.
If I shall be charged with wanting to live beyond my
country's means, I cannot help it. A country which
cannot afford ambassador's wages should be ashamed
to have ambassadors.

Think of a Seventeen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar
ambassador! Particularly for America. Why, it is
the most ludicrous spectacle, the most inconsistent and
incongruous spectacle, contrivable by even the most
diseased imagination. It is a billionaire in a paper
collar, a king in a breechclout, an archangel in a tin
halo. And, for pure sham and hypocrisy, the salary
is just the match of the ambassador's official clothes
—that boastful advertisement of a Republican Sim-
plicity which manifests itself at home in Fifty-thou-
sand-dollar salaries to insurance presidents and rail-
way lawyers, and in domestic palaces whose fittings
and furnishings often transcend in costly display and
splendor and richness the fittings and furnishings of
the palaces of the sceptred masters of Europe; and
which has invented and exported to the Old World
the palace-car, the sleeping-car, the tram-car, the
electric trolley, the best bicycles, the best motor-
cars, the steam-heater, the best and smartest systems
of electric calls and telephonic aids to laziness and
comfort, the elevator, the private bath-room (hot
and cold water on tap), the palace-hotel, with its
multifarious conveniences, comforts, shows, and
luxuries, the—oh, the list is interminable! In a


word, Republican Simplicity found Europe with one
shirt on her back, so to speak, as far as real luxuries,
conveniences, and the comforts of life go, and has
clothed her to the chin with the latter. We are the
lavishest and showiest and most luxury-loving peo-
ple on the earth; and at our masthead we fly one
true and honest symbol, the gaudiest flag the world
has ever seen. Oh, Republican Simplicity, there
are many, many humbugs in the world, but none to
which you need take off your hat!


IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

I was spending the month of March, 1892, at
Mentone, in the Riviera. At this retired spot
one has all the advantages, privately, which are to
be had at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther
along, publicly. That is to say, one has the flood-
ing sunshine, the balmy air, and the brilliant blue
sea, without the marring additions of human pow-
wow and fuss and feathers and display. Mentone is
quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious; the rich and
the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean,
the rich do not come there. Now and then a rich
man comes, and I presently got acquainted with one
of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him
Smith. One day, in the Hôtel des Anglais, at the
second breakfast, he exclaimed:

"Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out
at the door. Take in every detail of him."

"Why?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. He spent several days here before you
came. He is an old, retired, and very rich silk
manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he


is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and
dreamy, and doesn't talk with anybody. His name
is Théophile Magnan."

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to
justify the large interest which he had shown in
Monsieur Magnan; but instead he dropped into a
brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to
the rest of the world during some minutes. Now
and then he passed his fingers through his flossy
white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he
allowed his breakfast to go on cooling. At last he
said:

"No, it's gone; I can't call it back."

"Can't call what back?"

"It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little
stories. But it's gone from me. Part of it is like
this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves, but
thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song
unheard and unheeded; but in time, hunger and
thirst assail the creature, and its song grows plain-
tive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.
The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with
remorse; then, with bitter tears and lamentations,
it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with
elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without
knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who
starve poets to death and then spend enough on
their funerals and monuments to have kept them
alive and made them easy and comfortable. Now—"

But here we were interrupted. About ten that


evening I ran across Smith, and he asked me up to
his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.
It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its
cheerful lamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned
olive-wood. To make everything perfect, there was
the muffled booming of the surf outside. After the
second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat,
Smith said:

"Now we are properly primed—I to tell a
curious history, and you to listen to it. It has been
a secret for many years—a secret between me and
three others; but I am going to break the seal now.
Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly. Go on."

Here follows what he told me:

"A long time ago I was a young artist—a very
young artist, in fact—and I wandered about the
country parts of France, sketching here and sketch-
ing there, and was presently joined by a couple of
darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind
of thing that I was doing. We were as happy as we
were poor, or as poor as we were happy—phrase it
to suit yourself. Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger
—these are the names of those boys; dear, dear
fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at
poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

"At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village,
and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and
literally saved us from starving—François Millet—"

"What! the great François Millet?"


"Great? He wasn't any greater than we were,
then. He hadn't any fame, even in his own village;
and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed
us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us
sometimes. We four became fast friends, doting
friends, inseparables. We painted away together
with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock,
but very seldom getting rid of any of it. We had
lovely times together; but, O my soul! how we
were pinched now and then!

"For a little over two years this went on. At
last, one day, Claude said:

"'Boys, we've come to the end. Do you under-
stand that?—absolutely to the end. Everybody
has struck—there's a league formed against us.
I've been all around the village and it's just as I
tell you. They refuse to credit us for another
centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.'

"This struck us cold. Every face was blank
with dismay. We realized that our circumstances
were desperate, now. There was a long silence.
Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

"'Nothing occurs to me—nothing. Suggest
something, lads.'

"There was no response, unless a mournful
silence may be called a response. Carl got up, and
walked nervously up and down awhile, then said:

"'It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks
and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in
Europe paints—I don't care who he is. Yes, and


plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—
or nearly that, anyway.'

"'But didn't buy,' Millet said.

"'No matter, they said it; and it's true, too.
Look at your "Angelus" there! Will anybody
tell me—'

"'Pah, Carl—my "Angelus"! I was offered
five francs for it.'

"'When?'

"'Who offered it?'

"'Where is he?'

"'Why didn't you take it?'

"'Come—don't all speak at once. I thought
he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked
it—so I asked him eight.'

"'Well—and then?'

"'He said he would call again.'

"'Thunder and lightning! Why, François—'

"'Oh, I know—I know! It was a mistake, and
I was a fool. Boys, I meant for the best; you'll
grant me that, and I—'

"'Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear
heart; but don't you be a fool again.'

"'I? I wish somebody would come along and
offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see!'

"'A cabbage! Oh, don't name it—it makes
my mouth water. Talk of things less trying.'

"'Boys,' said Carl, 'do these pictures lack
merit? Answer me that.'

"'No!'


"'Aren't they of very great and high merit?
Answer me that.'

"'Yes'

"'Of such great and high merit that, if an illus-
trious name were attached to them, they would sell
at splendid prices. Isn't it so?'

"'Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that.'

"'But—I'm not joking—isn't it so?'

"'Why, of course it's so—and we are not jok-
ing. But what of it? What of it? How does that
concern us?'

"'In this way, comrades—we'll attach an illus-
trious name to them!'

"The lively conversation stopped. The faces
were turned inquiringly upon Carl. What sort of
riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name
to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

"Carl sat down, and said:

"'Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to pro-
pose. I think it is the only way to keep us out of
the almshouse, and I believe it to be a perfectly
sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multi-
tudinous and long-established facts in human history.
I believe my project will make us all rich.'

"'Rich! You've lost your mind.'

"'No, I haven't.'

"'Yes, you have—you've lost your mind.
What do you call rich?'

"'A hundred thousand francs apiece.'

"'He has lost his mind. I knew it.'


"'Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too
much for you, and—'

"'Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to
bed.'

"'Bandage him first—bandage his head, and
then—'

"'No, bandage his heels; his brains have been
settling for weeks—I've noticed it.'

"'Shut up!' said Millet, with ostensible severity,
'and let the boy say his say. Now, then—come
out with your project, Carl. What is it?'

"'Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you
to note this fact in human history: that the merit
of many a great artist has never been acknowledged
until after he was starved and dead. This has hap-
pened so often that I make bold to found a law upon
it. This law: that the merit of every great unknown
and neglected artist must and will be recognized,
and his pictures climb to high prices after his death.
My project is this: we must cast lots—one of us
must die.'

"The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly
that we almost forgot to jump. Then there was a
wild chorus of advice again—medical advice—for
the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for
the hilarity to calm down, then went on again with
his project:

"'Yes, one of us must die, to save the others—
and himself. We will cast lots. The one chosen
shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Hold


still, now—hold still; don't interrupt—I tell you
I know what I am talking about. Here is the idea.
During the next three months the one who is to die
shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all
he can—not pictures, no! skeleton sketches,
studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, a
dozen dabs of the brush on each—meaningless, of
course, but his with his cipher on them; turn out
fifty a day, each to contain some peculiarity or man-
nerism easily detectable as his—they're the things
that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous
prices for the world's museums, after the great man
is gone; we'll have a ton of them ready—a ton!
And all that time the rest of us will be busy support-
ing the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers
—preparations for the coming event, you know; and
when everything is hot and just right, we'll spring
the death on them and have the notorious funeral.
You get the idea?'

"'N-o; at least, not qu—'

"'Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't
really die; he changes his name and vanishes; we
bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world to
help. And I—'

"But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody
broke out into a rousing hurrah of applause; and all
jumped up and capered about the room and fell on
each other's necks in transports of gratitude and
joy. For hours we talked over the great plan, with-
out ever feeling hungry; and at last, when all the


details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots
and Millet was elected—elected to die, as we called
it. Then we scraped together those things which
one never parts with until he is betting them against
future wealth—keepsake trinkets and such like—
and these we pawned for enough to furnish us a
frugal farewell supper and breakfast, and leave us a
few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and
such for Millet to live on for a few days.

"Next morning, early, the three of us cleared
out, straightway after breakfast—on foot, of course.
Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's small pictures,
purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris,
where he would start the work of building up Mil-
let's fame against the coming great day. Claude
and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over
France.

"Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy
and comfortable thing we had. I walked two days
before I began business. Then I began to sketch a
villa in the outskirts of a big town—because I saw
the proprietor standing on an upper veranda. He
came down to look on—I thought he would. I
worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested.
Occasionally he fired off a little ejaculation of appro-
bation, and by and by he spoke up with enthusiasm,
and said I was a master!

"I put down my brush, reached into my satchel,
fetched out a Millet, and pointed to the cipher in
the corner. I said, proudly:


"'I suppose you recognize that? Well, he
taught me! I should think I ought to know my
trade!'

"The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was
silent. I said, sorrowfully:

"'You don't mean to intimate that you don't
know the cipher of François Millet!'

"Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he
was the gratefulest man you ever saw, just the same,
for being let out of an uncomfortable place on such
easy terms. He said:

"'No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I
don't know what I could have been thinking of.
Of course I recognize it now.'

"Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that
although I wasn't rich I wasn't that poor. How-
ever, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred
francs."

"Eight hundred!"

"Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop.
Yes, I got eight hundred francs for that little thing.
I wish I could get it back for eighty thousand.
But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture
of that man's house, and I wanted to offer it to him
for ten francs, but that wouldn't answer, seeing I
was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him
for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs
straight back to Millet from that town and struck out
again next day.

"But I didn't walk—no. I rode. I have ridden


ever since. I sold one picture every day, and never
tried to sell two. I always said to my customer:

"'I am a fool to sell a picture of François Mil-
let's at all, for that man is not going to live three
months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had
for love or money.'

"I took care to spread that little fact as far as I
could, and prepare the world for the event.

"I take credit to myself for our plan of selling
the pictures—it was mine. I suggested it that last
evening when we were laying out our campaign, and
all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial be-
fore giving it up for some other. It succeeded with
all of us. I walked only two days, Claude walked
two—both of us afraid to make Millet celebrated
too close to home—but Carl walked only half a
day, the bright, conscienceless rascal, and after that
he traveled like a duke.

"Every now and then we got in with a country
editor and started an item around through the press;
not an item announcing that a new painter had been
discovered, but an item which let on that everybody
knew François Millet; not an item praising him in
any way, but merely a word concerning the present
condition of the 'master'—sometimes hopeful,
sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears
for the worst. We always marked these paragraphs,
and sent the papers to all the people who had
bought pictures of us.

"Carl was soon in Paris, and he worked things


with a high hand. He made friends with the cor-
respondents, and got Millet's condition reported to
England and all over the continent, and America,
and everywhere.

"At the end of six weeks from the start, we three
met in Paris and called a halt, and stopped sending
back to Millet for additional pictures. The boom
was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw
that it would be a mistake not to strike now, right
away, without waiting any longer. So we wrote
Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty
fast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he
could get ready.

"Then we figured up and found that among us we
had sold eighty-five small pictures and studies, and
had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it. Carl
had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of
all. He sold the 'Angelus' for twenty-two hundred
francs. How we did glorify him!—not foreseeing
that a day was coming by and by when France would
struggle to own it and a stranger would capture it
for five hundred and fifty thousand, cash.

"We had a wind-up champagne supper that
night, and next day Claude and I packed up and
went off to nurse Millet through his last days and
keep busybodies out of the house and send daily
bulletins to Carl in Paris for publication in the
papers of several continents for the information of a
waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl
was there in time to help in the final mournful rites.


"You remember that great funeral, and what a
stir it made all over the globe, and how the illus-
trious of two worlds came to attend it and testify
their sorrow. We four—still inseparable—carried
the coffin, and would allow none to help. And we
were right about that, because it hadn't anything in
it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers
would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we
same old four, who had lovingly shared privation
together in the old hard times now gone forever,
carried the cof—"

"Which four?"

"We four—for Millet helped to carry his own
coffin. In disguise, you know. Disguised as a
relative—distant relative."

"Astonishing!"

"But true, just the same. Well, you remember
how the pictures went up. Money? We didn't
know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris
to-day who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid
us two million francs for them. And as for the
bushels of sketches and studies which Millet shoveled
out during the six weeks that we were on the road,
well, it would astonish you to know the figure we
sell them at nowadays—that is, when we consent
to let one go!"

"It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!"

"Yes—it amounts to that."

"Whatever became of Millet?"

"Can you keep a secret?"


"I can."

"Do you remember the man I called your atten-
tion to in the dining-room to-day? That was
François Millet."

"Great—"

"Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a
genius to death and then put into other pockets the
rewards he should have had himself. This song-
bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard
and then be paid with the cold pomp of a big
funeral. We looked out for that."


MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not
been realized. For all who are old, there is
something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no gray-head's case can it
suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Dis-
appointment is its own reason for its pain: the
quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter
aside. The dreamer's valuation of a thing lost—
not another man's—is the only standard to measure
it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great
and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases.
We should carefully remember that. There are six-
teen hundred million people in the world. Of these
there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-
eight million—who can understand why a person
should have an ambition to belong to the French
army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud
of that; and why, having got down that far, he
should want to go on down, down, down till he
struck bottom and got on the General Staff; and
why, being stripped of his livery, or set free and
reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick


and thorough process, let it be what it might, he
should wish to return to his strange serfage. But
no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper
measure of their value: the proper measure, the
just measure, is that which is put upon them by
Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness
or the vastness of the disappointment which their
loss cost him.

There you have it: the measure of the magnitude
of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappoint-
ment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in
others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do
with the matter. With this straightening-out and
classification of the dreamer's position to help us,
perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and re-
spect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our
friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that
I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me,
are curious enough; but we may not smile at them,
for they were precious to the dreamers, and their
failure has left scars which give them dignity and
pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that
were brown when they and mine were young together
rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to
speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton,
Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and am-
bitions come flooding back to my memory now, out
of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the


lamented past! I remember it so well—that night
we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields
was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and
Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—
and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams
which had not as yet been blighted, but over which
was stealing the gray of the night that was to come
—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feel-
ing oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that
Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with
great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer.
He told of his early struggles to climb to his
goal, and how at last he attained to within a single
step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune
after misfortune assailed him, and he went down,
and down, and down, until now at last, weary and
disheartened, he had for the present given up the
struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly.
This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since,
and where now is his dream? It will never be ful-
filled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for
the position; no one would take him now; even if
he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit
in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be
put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing
younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture
and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed

and intellectually low order of customers, who must
be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized
humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that
had coveted that thing and had set his heart of
hearts upon it; and when we remember this, a great
wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and
we wish for his sake that his fate could have been
different.

At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet
past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming,
wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehen-
sion was blowing cold over the perishing summer of
his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had
aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the
Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in
high and wounding tones. I look back now, from
this far distance of seventy years, and note with sor-
row the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's
history is but Howells's, with differences of detail.
Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-
plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel
in the field; Chargé d'Affaires in Paris; Chargé
d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune;
Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England;


and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State,
Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like
Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—
where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and
tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that?
I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling
it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; try-
ing to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet
to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be
a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the
others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and
again and again. And now at last he can fall no
further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle,
and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with
him now. His dream is over.

Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I
must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He
wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he
ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young
dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where
he has landed.

Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young
dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day?
Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream?
To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.


Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they
are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-
have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that
were revealed that night now so long vanished, how
they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet
privacies, how they endeared us to each other!
We were under oath never to tell any of these
things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not
worthy to hear them.

Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green
in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the in-
dignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE.Sleep! for the Sun that scores another DayAgainst the Tale allotted You to stay,Reminding You, is Risen, and nowServes Notice—ah, ignore it while You may!The chill Wind blew, and those who stood beforeThe Tavern murmured, "Having drunk his Score,Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more."Come leave the Cup, and on the Winter's SnowYour Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow."
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,"O Youth, O whither gone? Return,And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine."In this subduing Draught of tender greenAnd kindly Absinthe, with its wimpling SheenOf dusky half-lights, let me drownThe haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,We pay some day its Weight in golden GriefMined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not—From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!The Joy of Life, that streaming through their VeinsTumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanesThe Glory in the Eye—and one by oneLife's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.Whether one hide in some secluded Nook—Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook—'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He—He—He—when ready will know where to look.From Cradle unto Grave I keep a HouseOf Entertainment where may drowseBacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breedTheir festering Species in a deep Carouse.Think—in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,How Microbe after Microbe with his PompArrives unasked, and comes to stay.Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the LustOf masticating, once, now own DisgustOf Clay-plug'd Cavities—full soon our SnagsAre emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,And fat, like over-ripened Figs—we knowThe Sign—the Riggs Disease is ours, and weMust list this Sorrow, add another Woe.Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and offOur fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat—We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.Some for the Bunions that afflict us prateOf Plasters unsurpassable, and hateTo cut a Corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go,Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.Some for the Honors of Old Age, and someLong for its Respite from the HumAnd Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools,The Past should teach them what's to Come:Lo, for the Honors, cold Neglect instead!For Respite, disputatious Heirs a BedOf Thorns for them will furnish. Go,Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,And even smitten thus, will not repine,Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,O whither are ye flown? Come back,And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,And answer not when some that love it call:Be glad for Me when this you note—and thinkI've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic BowlThat medicines hurt Minds and on the SoulThe Healing of its Peace doth lay—if thenDeath claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting.
S. L. C.

Editorial Note. Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them
to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else-
where; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at
all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth. P. S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: "Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training.—Mark Twain." The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con-
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi-
bility of doing it.—Editor.

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING
SCHOOL AGAIN

By a paragraph in the Freie Presse it appears that
Jan Szczepanik, the youthful inventor of the
"telelectroscope" (for seeing at great distances)
and some other scientific marvels, has been having
an odd adventure, by help of the state.

Vienna is hospitably ready to smile whenever there
is an opportunity, and this seems to be a fair one.
Three or four years ago, when Szczepanik was
nineteen or twenty years old, he was a schoolmaster
in a Moravian village, on a salary of—I forget the
amount, but no matter; there was not enough of it
to remember. His head was full of inventions, and
in his odd hours he began to plan them out. He
soon perfected an ingenious invention for applying
photography to pattern-designing as used in the
textile industries, whereby he proposed to reduce
the customary outlay of time, labor, and money
expended on that department of loom-work to next
to nothing. He wanted to carry his project to
Vienna and market it; and as he could not get leave
of absence, he made his trip without leave. This


lost him his place, but did not gain him his market.
When his money ran out he went back home, and
was presently reinstated. By and by he deserted
once more, and went to Vienna, and this time he
made some friends who assisted him, and his inven-
tion was sold to England and Germany for a great
sum. During the past three years he has been ex-
perimenting and investigating in velvety comfort.
His most picturesque achievement is his telelectro-
scope, a device which a number of able men—in-
cluding Mr. Edison, I think—had already tried their
hands at, with prospects of eventual success. A
Frenchman came near to solving the difficult and in-
tricate problem fifteen years ago, but an essential
detail was lacking which he could not master, and he
suffered defeat. Szczepanik's experiments with his
pattern-designing project revealed to him the secret
of the lacking detail. He perfected his invention,
and a French syndicate has bought it, and saved it
for exhibition and fortune-making at the Paris
world's fair.

As a schoolmaster Szczepanik was exempt from
military duty. When he ceased from teaching, be-
ing an educated man he could have had himself en-
rolled as a one-year volunteer; but he forgot to do
it, and this exposed him to the privilege, and also
the necessity, of serving three years in the army.
In the course of duty, the other day, an official dis-
covered the inventor's indebtedness to the state, and
took the proper measures to collect. At first there


seemed to be no way for the inventor (and the
state) out of the difficulty. The authorities were
loath to take the young man out of his great labora-
tory, where he was helping to shove the whole
human race along on its road to new prosperities and
scientific conquests, and suspend operations in his
mental Klondike three years, while he punched the
empty air with a bayonet in a time of peace; but
there was the law, and how was it to be helped? It
was a difficult puzzle, but the authorities labored at
it until they found a forgotten law somewhere which
furnished a loop-hole—a large one, and a long one,
too, as it looks to me. By this piece of good luck
Szczepanik is saved from soldiering, but he becomes
a schoolmaster again; and it is a sufficiently pictur-
esque billet, when you examine it. He must go back
to his village every two months, and teach his school
half a day—from early in the morning until noon;
and, to the best of my understanding of the pub-
lished terms, he must keep this up the rest of his
life! I hope so, just for the romantic poeticalness
of it. He is twenty-four, strongly and compactly
built, and comes of an ancestry accustomed to wait-
ing to see its great-grandchildren married. It is
almost certain that he will live to be ninety. I hope
so. This promises him sixty-six years of useful
school service. Dissected, it gives him a chance to
teach school 396 half-days, make 396 railway trips
going and 396 back, pay bed and board 396 times
in the village, and lose possibly 1,200 days from his

laboratory work—that is to say, three years and
three months or so. And he already owes three
years to this same account. This has been over-
looked; I shall call the attention of the authorities
to it. It may be possible for him to get a compro-
mise on this compromise by doing his three years in
the army, and saving one; but I think it can't hap-
pen. This government "holds the age" on him;
it has what is technically called a "good thing" in
financial circles, and knows a good thing when it
sees it. I know the inventor very well, and he has
my sympathy. This is friendship. But I am
throwing my influence with the government. This
is politics.

Szczepanik left for his village in Moravia day be-
fore yesterday to "do time" for the first time under
his sentence. Early yesterday morning he started
for the school in a fine carriage, which was stocked
with fruits, cakes, toys, and all sorts of knick-
knacks, rarities, and surprises for the children, and
was met on the road by the school and a body of
schoolmasters from the neighboring districts, march-
ing in column, with the village authorities at the
head, and was received with the enthusiastic welcome
proper to the man who had made their village's
name celebrated, and conducted in state to the
humble doors which had been shut against him as a
deserter three years before. It is out of materials
like these that romances are woven; and when the
romancer has done his best, he has not improved


upon the unpainted facts. Szczepanik put the sap-
less school-books aside, and led the children a holi-
day dance through the enchanted lands of science
and invention, explaining to them some of the
curious things which he had contrived, and the laws
which governed their construction and performance,
and illustrating these matters with pictures and
models and other helps to a clear understanding of
their fascinating mysteries. After this there was
play and a distribution of the fruits and toys and
things; and after this, again, some more science,
including the story of the invention of the telephone,
and an explanation of its character and laws, for the
convict had brought a telephone along. The
children saw that wonder for the first time, and they
also personally tested its powers and verified them.
Then school "let out"; the teacher got his certifi-
cate, all signed, stamped, taxed, and so on, said
good-by, and drove off in his carriage under a
storm of "Do widzenia!" ("Au revoir!") from
the children, who will resume their customary
sobrieties until he comes in August and uncorks his
flask of scientific fire-water again.


EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY

Monday.—This new creature with the long hair
is a good deal in the way. It is always hang-
ing around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would
stay with the other animals…. Cloudy to-day,
wind in the east; think we shall have rain….
We? Where did I get that word?—I remember
now—the new creature uses it.

Tuesday.—Been examining the great waterfall.
It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The
new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure
I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls.
That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and
imbecility. I get no chance to name anything my-
self. The new creature names everything that comes
along, before I can get in a protest. And always
that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing.
There is the dodo, for instance. Says the moment
one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks
like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no
doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does
no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

Wednesday.—Built me a shelter against the rain,


but could not have it to myself in peace. The new
creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it
away with the back of its paws, and made a noise
such as some of the other animals make when they
are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is
always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at
the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so.
I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the
solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my
ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so
close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used
only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday.—The naming goes recklessly on, in
spite of anything I can do. I had a very good
name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
—Garden of Eden. Privately, I continue to call
it that, but not any longer publicly. The new
creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like
anything but a park. Consequently, without con-
sulting me, it has been new-named—Niagara
Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it
seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
keep off the grass

My life is not as happy as it was.


Saturday.—The new creature eats too much
fruit. We are going to run short, most likely.
"We" again—that is its word; mine, too, now,
from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this
morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. The
new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and
stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It
used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday.—Pulled through. This day is getting
to be more and more trying. It was selected and
set apart last November as a day of rest. I had
already six of them per week before. This morning
found the new creature trying to clod apples out of
that forbidden tree.

Monday.—The new creature says its name is
Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says
it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it
was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised
me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good
word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an
It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she
would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday.—She has littered the whole estate with
execrable names and offensive signs:
This way to the Whirlpool. This way to Goat Island. Cave of the Winds this way.

She says this park would make a tidy summer
resort if there was any custom for it. Summer


resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort?
But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for
explaining.

Friday.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop
going over the Falls. What harm does it do?
Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I
have always done it—always liked the plunge, and
the excitement and the coolness. I supposed it was
what the Falls were for. They have no other use
that I can see, and they must have been made for
something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.

I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory
to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory.
Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf
suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious com-
plaints about my extravagance. I am too much
hampered here. What I need is change of scene.

Saturday.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and
traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a
secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I
could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast
which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came
making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was
obliged to return with her, but will presently emi-
grate again when occasion offers. She engages her-
self in many foolish things; among others, to study
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on


grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth
they wear would indicate that they were intended to
eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that
would be to kill each other, and that would introduce
what, as I understand it, is called "death"; and
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Monday.—I believe I see what the week is for:
it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of
Sunday. It seems a good idea…. She has been
climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it.
She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider
that a sufficient justification for chancing any
dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justi-
fication moved her admiration—and envy, too, I
thought. It is a good word.

Tuesday.—She told me she was made out of a
rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful,
if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.
… She is in much trouble about the buzzard;
says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed
flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can
with what it is provided. We cannot overturn the
whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

Saturday.—She fell in the pond yesterday when
she was looking at herself in it, which she is always
doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most
uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the crea-


tures which live in there, which she calls fish, for
she continues to fasten names on to things that don't
need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her,
she is such a numskull, anyway; so she got a lot of
them out and brought them in last night and put
them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed
them now and then all day and I don't see that they
are any happier there than they were before, only
quieter. When night comes I shall throw them
outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I
find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when
a person hasn't anything on.

Sunday.—Pulled through.

Tuesday.—She has taken up with a snake now.
The other animals are glad, for she was always ex-
perimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me
to get a rest.

Friday.—She says the snake advises her to try
the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a
great and fine and noble education. I told her there
would be another result, too—it would introduce
death into the world. That was a mistake—it had
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only
gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and
tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree.
She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate.


Wednesday.—I have had a variegated time. I
escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast
as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the Park
and hide in some other country before the trouble
should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain
where thousands of animals were grazing, slumber-
ing, or playing with each other, according to their
wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of
frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a
frantic commotion and every beast was destroying
its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had
eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.
… The tigers ate my horse, paying no attention
when I ordered them to desist, and they would have
eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went
away in much haste…. I found this place, out-
side the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few
days, but she has found me out. Found me out,
and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks
like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for
there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought
some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I
was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I
find that principles have no real force except when
one is well fed…. She came curtained in boughs
and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what
she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them
away and threw them down, she tittered and
blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush


before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.
She said I would soon know how it was myself.
This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down
the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever
saw, considering the lateness of the season—and
arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and
branches, and then spoke to her with some severity
and ordered her to go and get some more and not
make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast
battle had been, and collected some skins, and I
made her patch together a couple of suits proper for
public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about
clothes…. I find she is a good deal of a com-
panion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed
without her, now that I have lost my property.
Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work
for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend.

Ten Days Later.—She accuses me of being the
cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent
sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that
the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts.
I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any
chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that
"chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged
and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have
made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some
of them could have been of that sort, though I had


honestly supposed that they were new when I made
them. She asked me if I had made one just at the
time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that
I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It
was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said
to myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast
body of water tumble down there!" Then in an
instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I
let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more wonderful
to see it tumble up there!"—and I was just about
to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature
broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for
my life. "There," she said, with triumph, "that
is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval
with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.
Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never
had that radiant thought!

Next Year.—We have named it Cain. She
caught it while I was up country trapping on the
North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have
been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us
in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what
she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment.
The difference in size warrants the conclusion that
it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, per-
haps, though when I put it in the water to see, it
sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before
there was opportunity for the experiment to deter-


mine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is
indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have
it to try. I do not understand this. The coming
of the creature seems to have changed her whole
nature and made her unreasonable about experi-
ments. She thinks more of it than she does of any
of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.
Her mind is disordered—everything shows it.
Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the
night when it complains and wants to get to the
water. At such times the water comes out of the
places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats
the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her
mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude
in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly.
She used to carry the young tigers around so, and
play with them, before we lost our property, but it
was only play; she never took on about them like
this when their dinner disagreed with them.

Sunday.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies
around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow
over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it,
and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it
laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could
laugh. This makes me doubt…. I have come
to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week
tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.
In the old days they were tough, but now they
come handy.


Wednesday.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite
make out what it is. It makes curious devilish
noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"
when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk;
it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog,
for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't
crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot
get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not.
It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with
its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but
she only admired the word without understanding it.
In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind
of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what
its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex
me so.

Three Months Later.—The perplexity aug-
ments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It
has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four-
legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually
short, consequently this causes the main part of its
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and
this is not attractive. It is built much as we are,
but its method of traveling shows that it is not of
our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a
marked variation of the species, since the true kan-
garoo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is
a curious and interesting variety, and has not been


catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt
justified in securing the credit of the discovery by
attaching my name to it, and hence have called it
Kangaroorum Adamiensis…. It must have been
a young one when it came, for it has grown exceed-
ingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it
was then, and when discontented it is able to make
from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it
made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but
has the contrary effect. For this reason I discon-
tinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion,
and by giving it things which she had previously told
it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was
not at home when it first came, and she told me she
found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn
myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this one to play
with; for surely then it would be quieter and we
could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any
vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It
has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;
therefore, how does it get about without leaving a
track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no
good. I catch all small animals except that one;
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity,
I think, to see what the milk is there for. They
never drink it.

Three Months Later.—The Kangaroo still
continues to grow, which is very strange and per-


plexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that
it is much finer and softer, and instead of being
black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the
capricious and harassing developments of this un-
classifiable zoölogical freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new
variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I
caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking
that this one, being lonesome, would rather have
that for company than have no kin at all, or any
animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy
from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do
to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was
a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the
kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there
is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could
tame it—but that is out of the question; the more
I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and
passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't
hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and
yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than
ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could
it?

Five Months Later.—It is not a kangaroo.
No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger,


and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then
falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear;
and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except
on its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth
earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our
catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this
one prowling about the place much longer without a
muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if
she would let this one go, but it did no good—she
is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,
I think. She was not like this before she lost her
mind.

A Fortnight Later.—I examined its mouth.
There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It
has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have
moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a
mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or
no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be
dangerous.

Four Months Later.—I have been off hunting
and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls
Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there
are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has
learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." It is
certainly a new species. This resemblance to words
may be purely accidental, of course, and may have


no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is
still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other
bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken
together with general absence of fur and entire
absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a
new kind of bear. The further study of it will be
exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on
a far expedition among the forests of the north and
make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be
another one somewhere, and this one will be less
dangerous when it has company of its own species.
I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one
first.

Three Months Later.—It has been a weary,
weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the
meantime, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck.
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I
never would have run across that thing.

Next Day.—I have been comparing the new one
with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they
are the same breed. I was going to stuff one of
them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against
it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished
the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can
laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this,
no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and
having the imitative faculty in a highly developed


degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be
a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be
astonished, for it has already been everything else it
could think of since those first days when it was
a fish. The new one is as ugly now as the old one
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat
complexion and the same singular head without any
fur on it. She calls it Abel.

Ten Years Later.—They are boys; we found it
out long ago. It was their coming in that small,
immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used
to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good
boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have
improved him. After all these years, I see that I
was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better
to live outside the Garden with her than inside it
without her. At first I thought she talked too
much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice
fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the
chestnut that brought us near together and taught
me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweet-
ness of her spirit!


THE DEATH DISK*

The text for this story is a touching incident mentioned in Carlyle's
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.—M. T.

I

This was in Oliver Cromwell's time. Colonel
Mayfair was the youngest officer of his rank
in the armies of the Commonwealth, he being but
thirty years old. But young as he was, he was a
veteran soldier, and tanned and warworn, for he
had begun his military life at seventeen; he had
fought in many battles, and had won his high place
in the service and in the admiration of men, step
by step, by valor in the field. But he was in deep
trouble now; a shadow had fallen upon his fortunes.

The winter evening was come, and outside were
storm and darkness; within, a melancholy silence;
for the Colonel and his young wife had talked their
sorrow out, had read the evening chapter and prayed
the evening prayer, and there was nothing more to
do but sit hand in hand and gaze into the fire, and
think—and wait. They would not have to wait
long; they knew that, and the wife shuddered at
the thought.


They had one child—Abby, seven years old, their
idol. She would be coming presently for the good-
night kiss, and the Colonel spoke now, and said:

"Dry away the tears and let us seem happy, for
her sake. We must forget, for the time, that which
is to happen."

"I will. I will shut them up in my heart, which
is breaking."

"And we will accept what is appointed for us,
and bear it in patience, as knowing that whatsoever
He doeth is done in righteousness and meant in
kindness—"

"Saying, His will be done. Yes, I can say it
with all my mind and soul—I would I could say
it with my heart. Oh, if I could! if this dear hand
which I press and kiss for the last time—"

"'Sh! sweetheart, she is coming!"

A curly-headed little figure in nightclothes glided
in at the door and ran to the father, and was gathered
to his breast and fervently kissed once, twice, three
times.

"Why, papa, you mustn't kiss me like that:
you rumple my hair."

"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry: do you forgive
me, dear?"

"Why, of course, papa. But are you sorry?—
not pretending, but real, right down sorry?"

"Well, you can judge for yourself, Abby," and
he covered his face with his hands and made believe
to sob. The child was filled with remorse to see this


tragic thing which she had caused, and she began to
cry herself, and to tug at the hands, and say:

"Oh, don't, papa, please don't cry; Abby didn't
mean it; Abby wouldn't ever do it again. Please,
papa!" Tugging and straining to separate the
fingers, she got a fleeting glimpse of an eye behind
them, and cried out: "Why, you naughty papa,
you are not crying at all! You are only fooling!
And Abby is going to mamma, now: you don't
treat Abby right."

She was for climbing down, but her father wound
his arms about her and said: "No, stay with me,
dear: papa was naughty, and confesses it, and is
sorry—there, let him kiss the tears away—and he
begs Abby's forgiveness, and will do anything Abby
says he must do, for a punishment; they're all
kissed away now, and not a curl rumpled—and
whatever Abby commands—"

And so it was made up; and all in a moment the
sunshine was back again and burning brightly in the
child's face, and she was patting her father's cheeks
and naming the penalty—"A story! a story!"

Hark!

The elders stopped breathing, and listened. Foot-
steps! faintly caught between the gusts of wind.
They came nearer, nearer—louder, louder—then
passed by and faded away. The elders drew deep
breaths of relief, and the papa said: "A story, is
it? A gay one?"

"No, papa: a dreadful one."


Papa wanted to shift to the gay kind, but the child
stood by her rights—as per agreement, she was to
have anything she commanded. He was a good
Puritan soldier and had passed his word—he saw
that he must make it good. She said:

"Papa, we mustn't always have gay ones. Nurse
says people don't always have gay times. Is that
true, papa? She says so."

The mamma sighed, and her thoughts drifted to
her troubles again. The papa said, gently: "It is
true, dear. Troubles have to come; it is a pity,
but it is true."

"Oh, then tell a story about them, papa—a
dreadful one, so that we'll shiver, and feel just as if
it was us. Mamma, you snuggle up close, and hold
one of Abby's hands, so that if it's too dreadful it'll
be easier for us to bear it if we are all snuggled up
together, you know. Now you can begin, papa."

"Well, once there were three Colonels—"

"Oh, goody! I know Colonels, just as easy!
It's because you are one, and I know the clothes.
Go on, papa."

"And in a battle they had committed a breach of
discipline."

The large words struck the child's ear pleasantly,
and she looked up, full of wonder and interest, and
said:

"Is it something good to eat, papa?"

The parents almost smiled, and the father
answered:


"No, quite another matter, dear. They ex-
ceeded their orders."

"Is that someth—"

"No; it's as uneatable as the other. They were
ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a
losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and
give the Commonwealth's forces a chance to retreat;
but in their enthusiasm they overstepped their
orders, for they turned the feint into a fact, and
carried the position by storm, and won the day and
the battle. The Lord General was very angry at
their disobedience, and praised them highly, and
ordered them to London to be tried for their lives."

"Is it the great General Cromwell, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I've seen him, papa! and when he goes by
our house so grand on his big horse, with the
soldiers, he looks so—so—well, I don't know just
how, only he looks as if he isn't satisfied, and you
can see the people are afraid of him; but I'm not
afraid of him, because he didn't look like that at
me."

"Oh, you dear prattler! Well, the Colonels
came prisoners to London, and were put upon their
honor, and allowed to go and see their families for
the last—"

Hark!

They listened. Footsteps again; but again they
passed by. The mamma leaned her head upon her
husband's shoulder to hide her paleness.


"They arrived this morning."

The child's eyes opened wide.

"Why, papa! is it a true story?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, how good! Oh, it's ever so much better!
Go on, papa. Why, mamma!—dear mamma, are
you crying?"

"Never mind me, dear—I was thinking of the—
of the—the poor families."

"But don't cry, mamma: it'll all come out right
—you'll see; stories always do. Go on, papa, to
where they lived happy ever after; then she won't
cry any more. You'll see, mamma. Go on, papa."

"First, they took them to the Tower before they
let them go home."

"Oh, I know the Tower! We can see it from
here. Go on, papa."

"I am going on as well as I can, in the circum-
stances. In the Tower the military court tried them
for an hour, and found them guilty, and condemned
them to be shot."

"Killed, papa?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how naughty! Dear mamma, you are cry-
ing again. Don't, mamma; it'll soon come to the
good place—you'll see. Hurry, papa, for mam-
ma's sake; you don't go fast enough."

"I know I don't, but I suppose it is because I
stop so much to reflect."

"But you mustn't do it, papa; you must go right
on."


"Very well, then. The three Colonels—"

"Do you know them, papa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, I wish I did! I love Colonels. Would
they let me kiss them, do you think?" The
Colonel's voice was a little unsteady when he
answered—

"One of them would, my darling! There—kiss
me for him."

"There, papa—and these two are for the others.
I think they would let me kiss them, papa; for I
would say, 'My papa is a Colonel, too, and brave,
and he would do what you did; so it can't be
wrong, no matter what those people say, and you
needn't be the least bit ashamed;' then they would
let me,—wouldn't they, papa?"

"God knows they would, child!"

"Mamma!—oh, mamma, you mustn't. He's
soon coming to the happy place; go on, papa."

"Then, some were sorry—they all were; that
military court, I mean; and they went to the Lord
General, and said they had done their duty—for it
was their duty, you know—and now they begged
that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only
the other one shot. One would be sufficient for an
example for the army, they thought. But the Lord
General was very stern, and rebuked them foras-
much as, having done their duty and cleared their
consciences, they would beguile him to do less, and
so smirch his soldierly honor. But they answered


that they were asking nothing of him that they
would not do themselves if they stood in his great
place and held in their hands the noble prerogative
of mercy. That struck him, and he paused and
stood thinking, some of the sternness passing out of
his face. Presently he bid them wait, and he retired
to his closet to seek counsel of God in prayer; and
when he came again, he said: 'They shall cast lots.
That shall decide it, and two of them shall live.'"

"And did they, papa, did they? And which one
is to die?—ah, that poor man!"

"No. They refused."

"They wouldn't do it, papa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"They said that the one that got the fatal bean
would be sentencing himself to death by his own
voluntary act, and it would be but suicide, call it by
what name one might. They said they were Chris-
tians, and the Bible forbade men to take their own
lives. They sent back that word, and said they were
ready—let the court's sentence be carried into effect."

"What does that mean, papa?"

"They—they will all be shot."

Hark!

The wind? No. Tramp—tramp—tramp—
r-r-r-umble-dumdum, r-r-rumble-dumdum—

"Open—in the Lord General's name!"

"Oh, goody, papa, it's the soldiers!—I love the
soldiers! Let me let them in, papa, let me!"


She jumped down, and scampered to the door
and pulled it open, crying joyously: "Come in!
come in! Here they are, papa! Grenadiers! I
know the Grenadiers!"

The file marched in and straightened up in line at
shoulder arms; its officer saluted, the doomed
Colonel standing erect and returning the courtesy,
the soldier wife standing at his side, white, and with
features drawn with inward pain, but giving no
other sign of her misery, the child gazing on the
show with dancing eyes….

One long embrace, of father, mother, and child;
then the order, "To the Tower—forward!"
Then the Colonel marched forth from the house
with military step and bearing, the file following;
then the door closed.

"Oh, mamma, didn't it come out beautiful! I
told you it would; and they're going to the Tower,
and he'll see them! He—"

"Oh, come to my arms, you poor innocent
thing!" ….

II

The next morning the stricken mother was not
able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were
watching by her, and whispering together now and
then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she
was told to run and play—mamma was very ill.
The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and
played in the street awhile; then it struck her as


strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be
allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a
time as this. This must be remedied; she would
attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into
the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim
and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table,
and indicated that he was ready to listen. The
spokesman said: "We have urged them to recon-
sider; we have implored them: but they persist.
They will not cast lots. They are willing to die,
but not to defile their religion."

The Protector's face darkened, but he said noth-
ing. He remained a time in thought, then he said:
"They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for
them." Gratitude shone in the faces of the court.
"Send for them. Place them in that room there.
Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall
and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have
notice when they are there."

When he was alone he sat down, and presently
gave this order to an attendant: "Go, bring me the
first little child that passes by."

The man was hardly out at the door before he was
back again—leading Abby by the hand, her gar-
ments lightly powdered with snow. She went
straight to the Head of the State, that formidable
personage at the mention of whose name the princi-
palities and powers of the earth trembled, and
climbed up in his lap, and said:


"I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I
have seen you; I have seen you when you went by
my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn't
afraid, because you didn't look cross at me; you
remember, don't you? I had on my red frock—
the one with the blue things on it down the front.
Don't you remember that?"

A smile softened the austere lines of the Pro-
tector's face, and he began to struggle diplomatically
with his answer:

"Why, let me see—I—"

"I was standing right by the house—my house,
you know."

"Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be
ashamed, but you know—"

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

"Now you don't remember it. Why, I didn't
forget you."

"Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you
again, dear; you have my word for it. You will
forgive me now, won't you, and be good friends
with me, always and forever?"

"Yes, indeed I will, though I don't know how
you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful:
but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you with-
out any trouble, for I think you mean to be good
and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but
you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—
it's cold."

"You shall be snuggled to your heart's content,


little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of
mine hereafter, isn't it? You mind me of my little
girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear,
and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she
had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering
sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that
wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious
compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just
as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and
care out of my heart and give it peace, just as
you are doing now; and we were comrades, and
equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it
was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and
vanished, and you have brought it back again;—
take a burdened man's blessing for it, you tiny
creature, who are carrying the weight of England
while I rest!"

"Did you love her very, very, very much?"

"Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded
and I obeyed!"

"I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?"

"Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too.
There—this one is for you; and there—this one
is for her. You made it a request; and you could
have made it a command, for you are representing
her, and what you command I must obey."

The child clapped her hands with delight at the
idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught
an approaching sound: the measured tramp of
marching men.


"Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby
wants to see them!"

"You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a
commission for you."

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, "They
are come, your Highness," bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little
disks of sealing-wax: two white, and one a ruddy
red—for this one's mission was to deliver death to
the Colonel who should get it.

"Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?"

"No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner
of that curtain, there, which hides an open door;
pass through, and you will see three men standing
in a row, with their backs toward you and their
hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand
open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop
one of those things, then come back to me."

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the
Protector was alone. He said, reverently: "Of a
surety that good thought came to me in my per-
plexity from Him who is an ever present help to
them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He
knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent
His sinless messenger to do His will. Another
would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His
ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!"

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her
and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity
the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the


rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then
her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself:
"Why, one of them is papa! I know his back.
He shall have the prettiest one!" She tripped
gayly forward and dropped the disks into the open
hands, then peeped around under her father's arm
and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

"Papa! papa! look what you've got. I gave it
to you!"

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his
knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to
his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers,
officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for
a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the
pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and
they wept unashamed. There was deep and rever-
ent silence during some minutes, then the officer of
the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

"It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands."

"Commands what?" said the child.

"I must take him away. I am so sorry."

"Take him away? Where?"

"To—to—God help me!—to another part of
the fortress."

"Indeed you can't. My mamma is sick, and I
am going to take him home." She released herself
and climbed upon her father's back and put her
arms around his neck. "Now Abby's ready, papa
—come along."


"My poor child, I can't. I must go with them."

The child jumped to the ground and looked about
her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the
officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and
cried out:

"I told you my mamma is sick, and you might
have listened. Let him go—you must!"

"Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed
I must take him away. Attention, guard! ….
fall in! …. shoulder arms!" ….

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a
moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector
by the hand. At this formidable apparition all
present straightened up, the officers saluting and the
soldiers presenting arms.

"Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants
my papa, and I told them so, but they never even
listened to me, and are taking him away."

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

"Your papa, child? Is he your papa?"

"Why, of course—he was always it. Would I
give the pretty red one to any other, when I love
him so? No!"

A shocked expression rose in the Protector's face,
and he said:

"Ah, God help me! through Satan's wiles I have
done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and
there is no help, no help! What can I do?"

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: "Why,
you can make them let him go," and she began to


sob. "Tell them to do it! You told me to com-
mand, and now the very first time I tell you to do a
thing you don't do it!"

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and
the Lord General laid his hand upon the small
tyrant's head and said: "God be thanked for the
saving accident of that unthinking promise; and
you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my for-
gotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer,
obey her command—she speaks by my mouth.
The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!"


we ought never to do wrong when
people are looking


A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE
STORYCHAPTER I.

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the
time, 1880. There has been a wedding, be-
tween a handsome young man of slender means and
a rich young girl—a case of love at first sight and a
precipitate marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by
the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years
old, is of an old but unconsidered family which had
by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for
King James's purse's profit, so everybody said—
some maliciously, the rest merely because they be-
lieved it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably
proud of her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her
love for her young husband. For its sake she
braved her father's displeasure, endured his re-
proaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warn-
ing predictions, and went from his house without his


blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had
made its home in her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad
surprise for her. Her husband put aside her prof-
fered caresses, and said:

"Sit down. I have something to say to you. I
loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—
I could have endured that. But the things he said
of me to you—that is a different matter. There—
you needn't speak; I know quite well what they
were; I got them from authentic sources. Among
other things he said that my character was written in
my face; that I was treacherous, a dissembler, a
coward, and a brute without sense of pity or com-
passion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it
—and 'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my
place would have gone to his house and shot him
down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was minded
to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him
to shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches.
How to do it? Through my treatment of you, his
idol! I would marry you; and then— Have
patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the
young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the in-
sults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive
mind of the husband could contrive, save physical
injuries only. Her strong pride stood by her, and


she kept the secret of her troubles. Now and then
the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?" Then he invented new tor-
tures, applied them, and asked again. She always
answered, "He shall never know by my mouth,"
and taunted him with his origin; said she was the
lawful slave of a scion of slaves, and must obey, and
would—up to that point, but no further; he could
kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it
was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the
end of the three months he said, with a dark signifi-
cance in his manner, "I have tried all things but
one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that,"
she said, and curled her lip in mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his
clothes, then said to her,

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed—as always, without a word. He
led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to
lash her to a tree by the side of the public road;
and succeeded, she screaming and struggling. He
gagged her then, struck her across the face with his
cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They
tore the clothes off her, and she was naked. He
called the dogs off, and said:

"You will be found—by the passing public.
They will be dropping along about three hours
from now, and will spread the news—do you hear?
Good-by. You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:


"I shall bear a child—to him! God grant it
may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by—and spread
the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had
flown. The young wife shut herself up in her
father's house; he shut himself up with her, and
thenceforth would see no one. His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by
day, and even his daughter rejoiced when death re-
lieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.


CHAPTER II.

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest
house near a secluded New England village, with
no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaint-
anceships, and had none. The butcher, the baker,
and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was
Stillman, and that she called the child Archy.
Whence she came they had not been able to find
out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.
The child had no playmates and no comrade, and
no teacher but the mother. She taught him dili-
gently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day
Archy said,

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not. Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and
asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I
hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know
he'd been by, then, and I said because I smelt his
track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum


fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do
that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to her-
self, "It's a birthmark! The gift of the blood-
hound is in him." She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God
has appointed the way!" Her eyes were burning
with a fierce light and her breath came short and
quick with excitement. She said to herself: "The
puzzle is solved now; many a time it has been a
mystery to me, the impossible things the child has
done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk
about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her
dressing-table several small articles and put them
out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the bed;
a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small
ivory paper-knife under the wardrobe. Then she
returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought
to have brought down." She named them, and
said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon
back again with the things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the book-
case, taken several books from the bottom shelf,


opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting its
number in her memory, then restored them to their
places. Now she said:

"I have been doing something while you have
been gone, Archy. Do you think you can find out
what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the
books that had been touched, and opened them at
the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I have
found out that in one way you are quite different
from other people. You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the
talents of a bloodhound. They are good and valu-
able things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret. If people found it out, they would speak of
you as an odd child, a strange child, and children
would be disagreeable to you, and give you nick-
names. In this world one must be like everybody
else if he doesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or
jealousy. It is a great and fine distinction which
has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will
keep it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was
busy with excited thinkings; with plans, projects,
schemes, each and all of them uncanny, grim, and
dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell
light of their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.


She was in a fever of unrest; she could not sit,
stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her but in
movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty
ways, and kept saying to herself all the time, with
her mind in the past: "He broke my father's
heart, and night and day all these years I have tried,
and all in vain, to think out a way to break his. I
have found it now—I have found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed
her. She went on with her tests; with a candle she
traversed the house from garret to cellar, hiding pins,
needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the
bin; then sent the little fellow in the dark to find
them; which he did, and was happy and proud when
she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new com-
plexion for her. She said, "The future is secure—
I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of
her lost interests revived. She took up music again,
and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-
discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was
happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the develop-
ment of her boy, and was contented with it. Not
altogether, but nearly that. The soft side of his
heart was larger than the other side of it. It was
his only defect, in her eyes. But she considered
that his love for her and worship of her made up for
it. He was a good hater—that was well; but it


was a question if the materials of his hatreds were of
as tough and enduring a quality as those of his
friendships—and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become a hand-
some, shapely, athletic youth, courteous, dignified,
companionable, pleasant in his ways, and looking
perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.
One evening his mother said she had something of
grave importance to say to him, adding that he was
old enough to hear it now, and old enough and pos-
sessed of character enough and stability enough to
carry out a stern plan which she had been for years
contriving and maturing. Then she told him her
bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For a
while the boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by
our custom and nature there is but one atonement.
I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipa-
tion; death is a favor. Do I owe him favors? You
must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is
my law and my pleasure. Tell me what to do and
I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and
she said:

"You will go and find him. I have known his
hiding-place for eleven years; it cost me five years
and more of inquiry, and much money, to locate it.


He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.
He lives in Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller.
There—it is the first time I have spoken it since
that unforgettable night. Think! That name could
have been yours if I had not saved you that shame
and furnished you a cleaner one. You will drive
him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and
again, persistently, relentlessly, poisoning his life,
filling it with mysterious terrors, loading it with
weariness and misery, making him wish for death,
and that he had a suicide's courage; you will make
of him another wandering Jew; he shall know no
rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep;
you shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him,
till you break his heart, as he broke my father's and
mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are all
made; everything is ready. Here is a letter of
credit; spend freely, there is no lack of money.
At times you may need disguises. I have provided
them; also some other conveniences." She took
from the drawer of the typewriter table several
squares of paper. They all bore these typewritten
words:
$10,000 REWARD. It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern State
is sojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife to a
tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a cowhide, and
made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. He left


her there, and fled the country. A blood-relative of hers has searched
for him for seventeen years. Address……., ……., Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted your-
self with his scent, you will go in the night and
placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some
other prominent place. It will be the talk of the
region. At first you must give him several days in
which to force a sale of his belongings at something
approaching their value. We will ruin him by and
by, but gradually; we must not impoverish him at
once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms
from the drawer—duplicates—and read one:

To Jacob Fuller:

You have …….days in which to settle your affairs. You will not
be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at …… M., on the
……of …… You must then MOVE ON. If you are still in the
place after the named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,
detailing your crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of
it, with all names concerned, including your own. Have no fear of
bodily injury—it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.
You brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart. What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive
this before he learns of the reward placard—before
he rises in the morning—lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."


"You will need to use these forms only in the be-
ginning—once may be enough. Afterward, when
you are ready for him to vanish out of a place, see
that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:
move on. You have …… days.

"He will obey. That is sure."


CHAPTER III.

Extracts from letters to the mother:

I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob
Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions
of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and heard him
talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is
not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it for
wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly
upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or thirty-
seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a widower.
He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends. Even I feel
a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its claim.
How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of nature
—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself. But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will
not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that
he who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not
suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character,
and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolved from
all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it. But be com-
forted—he shall harvest his share.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I
slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.


Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he got
a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so his
paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to
our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it afforded
a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the
talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred people were
in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the
seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence
from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded up—in one
hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half
a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old
and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he had to
listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him
with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and
phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down below. And
more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.
His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise
that from me; and it was observable that his appetite was gone; he
only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico,
and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give
the property his personal attention. He played his cards well; said he
would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that
as he greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would
diminish his terms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. And
then, what do you think he did? He asked for greenbacks, and took
them, saying the man in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head
full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts. People


thought it queer, since a draft on New York could produce greenbacks
quite conveniently. There was talk of this odd thing, but only for a
day; that is as long as any topic lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was completed and
the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick to Fuller's
track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no, 12th, for it
was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room, which was four
doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my
muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down
in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it,
and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.
In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the
familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He left
the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfre-
quented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy dark-
ness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for
him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform
behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the hack
stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and took
a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from the
light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought no
ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he boarded
a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down the aisle
and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and named
his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the conductor
was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the same place
—about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He traveled
here and there and yonder—always on a general westward trend—
but he was not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like my-
self, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he
could do the character without thinking about it, for he had served the
trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have recognized him.
At last he located himself here, the obscurest little mountain camp in
Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting daily; is gone all
day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's boarding-house, and
it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the dirt—everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but
once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As soon as


he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and tele-
graphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.
I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that
with me.

The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I know
the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least
in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.
He has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in
the mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.
Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles, and he keeps quite
to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so fond of company
and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him passing along
several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his
step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since you
insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhap-
pier than he already is. I will go back to Denver and treat myself to a
little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily
decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson
to move on.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and
they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts. You
know you can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.
But if you were in my place you would have charity for me. Yes,
I know what you will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,
and carried your scalding memories in my heart—

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrong man! I have
not slept any all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the morning
train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How stupid we
have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his
own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is four years
younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in '79,
aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the documents


to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friends
of his who have known him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,
but a few days from now I will land him in this town again, with the
loss upon his mine made good; and there will be a banquet, and a
torch-light procession, and there will not be any expense on anybody
but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy, as you well
know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be a boy any more.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was cold
when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I wish
I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all think he
went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours of that,
then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to
try to keep still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.
This means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him. In-
deed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is I that am the
Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would think it a
trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now known that
he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once bore
the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!"
and they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say,
"Why did he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin."
If I failed to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is
no taint upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.

I have one clew, and only one. I know his handwriting. If he puts
his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too
much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


You already know how well I have searched the States from Colorado
to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once. Well, I
have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck his
trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel. That
was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But
I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid when excited.
He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost know, now,
that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months, but is rest-
less and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and I know
what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered when
I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't
say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his
address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot—a
"stingy old person, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I
suppose he is, now. I hardly heard; I was there but a moment. I
rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of
the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the horizon! I should
have saved half an hour if I had gone in the right direction at first. I
could have taken a fast tug, and should have stood a chance of catching
that vessel. She is bound for Melbourne.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a paucity; I
freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to
write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at Mel-
bourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in
Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow,
Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras—oh, everywhere;
week after week, month after month, through the dust and swelter—
always approximately on his track, sometimes close upon him, yet never
catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then to— Never mind;
by and by I will write it all out.


I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back
again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
State from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel almost
sure he is not far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty
miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a
wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost trail. I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming un-
comfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles. I
have been here a month. I am cabining with a young fellow named
"Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother—
like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every week—part of
which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect—
well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he
is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and
luxury to sit and talk with him and have a comradeship again. I wish
"James Walker" could have it. He had friends; he liked company.
That brings up that picture of him, the time that I saw him last. The
pathos of it! It comes before me often and often. At that very time,
poor thing, I was girding up my conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the com-
munity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks with or
allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and that it
is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as chari-
table toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large heart could
find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear
about him outside. I think that this one detail will give you a better
idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could
furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said something about like
this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to
me—empties his breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.
There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has
been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near as old as he looks.
He has lost the feel of reposefulness and peace—oh, years and years
ago! He doesn't know what good luck is—never has had any; often
says he wishes he was in the other hell, he is so tired of this one."


CHAPTER IV.No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires
of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper
air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the
wingless wild things that have their homes in the
tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and
the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting
sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of
innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swoon-
ing atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary
œsophagus*

[From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]

To the Editor of the Republican:—

One of your citizens has asked me a question about the "œsopha-
gus," and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the
answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have
already replied to the same question more than several times, and am
not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.

I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the
œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some peo-
ple—in fact, that was the intention,—but the harvest has been larger
than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the
guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the inno-
cent—the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write
and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not ex-
pecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor.
However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and
stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I
am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That
you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample in-
quiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:

My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest
story, entitled "A Double-barreled Detective Story," and am very much
delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harper's Magazine for Janu-
ary, occurs this passage: "far in the empty sky a solitary 'œsophagus'
slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God." Now, there is one word I do not understand,
namely, "œsophagus." My only work of reference is the "Standard
Dictionary," but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare
the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider
the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to
you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of
Luzon.

Yours very truly.

Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that
one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for
the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my inten-
tion that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was
my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see,
yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left
that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored every-
where; and the paragraph would have slidden through every reader's
sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.

The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England uni-
versity. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to sup-
press), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:—

Dear Mr. Clemens: "Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus
slept upon motionless wing."

It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but
I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification
and edification, your "Double-Barreled Detective Story."

But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never
sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words,
and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a
companion of my youth used to say, "I'll be eternally, co-eternally
cussed" if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?

Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that
man, but for pride's sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told
him it was a joke—and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield
inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and
he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I
commend to my Springfield inquirer.

I have confessed. I am sorry—partially. I will not do so any
more—for the present. Don't ask me any more questions; let the
œsophagus have a rest—on his same old motionless wing.

Mark Twain.

(Editorial.)

The "Double-Barreled Detective Story," which appeared in Har-
per's Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of bur-
lesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which
it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion
ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number.
As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr.
Clemens's ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:—

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless
wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit to-
gether; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the wood-
land; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œso-
phagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness,
serenity, and the peace of God.

The success of Mark Twain's joke recalls to mind his story of the
petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first
giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then
going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning
that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose;
then after further description observing that the fingers of the right
hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the digni-
fied attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the
thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right
—and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the
history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent maga-
zine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the
joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery
was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper
editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twain's jumping frog
has a good many more "pints" than any other frog.

slept upon motionless wing; every-

where brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of
God.

October is the time—1900; Hope Canyon is the
place, a silver-mining camp away down in the


Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its oc-
cupants to be rich in metal—a year or two's pros-
pecting will decide that matter one way or the

other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two
hundred miners, one white woman and child,
several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a
dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes,
battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are
no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The
camp has existed but two years; it has made no big
strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise
wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of
straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a
kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails
over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long;


the cabins stand well apart from each other. The
tavern is the only "frame" house—the only house,
one might say. It occupies a central position, and
is the evening resort of the population. They drink
there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also bil-
liards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn
places repaired with court-plaster; there are some
cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which
clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a
cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it;
and the man who can score six on a single break
can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the vil-
lage, going south; his silver claim was at the other
end of the village, northward, and a little beyond
the last hut in that direction. He was a sour
creature, unsociable, and had no companionships.
People who had tried to get acquainted with him
had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer
knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no,
he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek
English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him,
whom he treated roughly, both in public and in
private; and of course this lad was applied to for
information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones—
name of the youth—said that Flint picked him up
on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home
nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay


and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the
salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than
this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,
and under his meek exterior he was slowly consum-
ing to a cinder with the insults and humiliations
which his master had put upon him. For the meek
suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, per-
haps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out
and get relief with words or blows when the limit of
endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people
wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried
to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed
fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't." Pat
Riley urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with
me; don't you be afraid. I'll take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but
shuddered and said he "dasn't risk it"; he said
Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then— "Oh, it makes me sick, Mr.
Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake
you; skip out for the coast some night." But all
these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this. The boy's
miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is
quite likely that the people would have understood
if they had known how he was employing his spare


time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and
there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humilia-
tions, and studied and studied over a single problem
—how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be
found out. It was the only joy he had in life;
these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four
which he looked forward to with eagerness and
spent in happiness.

He thought of poison. No—that would not
serve; the inquest would reveal where it was pro-
cured and who had procured it. He thought of a
shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would
be homeward bound at midnight—his unvarying
hour for the trip. No—somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his
sleep. No—he might strike an inefficient blow,
and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred
different ways—none of them would answer; for in
even the very obscurest and secretest of them there
was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a
possibility that he might be found out. He would
have none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was
no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave
Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry
—he would find the way. It was somewhere, and
he would endure shame and pain and misery until he
found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which
would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to
the murderer—there was no hurry—he would find


that way, and then—oh, then, it would just be
good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently
keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as
always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear
him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October
morning Flint had bought some things, and he and
Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner;
a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon
the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which
they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of fuse,
which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that
Flint's mining operations had outgrown the pick,
and that blasting was about to begin now. He had
seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the pro-
cess, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture
was right—blasting-time had come. In the morn-
ing the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to
get into it and out of it a short ladder was used.
They descended, and by command Fetlock held the
drill—without any instructions as to the right way
to hold it—and Flint proceeded to strike. The
sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlock's
hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to
hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There—
hold fast. D you! I'll teach you!"


At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now,
then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the
powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I
— Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp
it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!" He snatched the iron and
tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and
blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away,
Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few min-
utes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst
high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after
a little there was a shower of descending stones;
then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the
master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled
another hole, and put in another charge.

"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing
to waste? Don't you know how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I
ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:


"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut
the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I—"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you
were in—"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft
and ran. The boy was aghast.

"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!"
he implored. "Oh, what can I do! What can
I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;
the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him;
his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent;
in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be fly-
ing toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had
an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the
inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,
his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if
I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the
shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down
into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had
happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy
dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white.
His appearance added something to Buckner's un-


comfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret
and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from
lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say any-
thing about it to anybody; I was excited, and didn't
notice what I was doing. You're not looking well;
you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my
cabin and eat what you want, and rest. It's just an
accident, you know, on account of my being
excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away;
"but I learnt something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner,
following him with his eye. "I wonder if he'll tell?
Mightn't he? … I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the
matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager
and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of
chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to
Flint's cabin; the most of Fetlock's labor was done
in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the
rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all
was complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell
on him, he won't keep them long, to-morrow. He
will see that I am the same milksop as I always was
—all day and the next. And the day after to-mor-
row night there'll be an end of him; nobody will
ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done.
He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."


CHAPTER V.

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five min-
utes the new morning will begin. The scene is in
the tavern billiard-room. Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-
tops, some with vests, none with coats, are grouped
about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy cheeks
and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard
balls are clacking; there is no other sound—that is,
within; the wind is fitfully moaning without. The
men look bored; also expectant. A hulking, broad-
shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whis-
kers, and an unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face,
rises, slips a coil of fuse upon his arm, gathers up
some other personal properties, and departs without
word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner. As
the door closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake
Parker, the blacksmith: "you can tell when it's
twelve just by him leaving, without looking at your
Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I
know," said Peter Hawes, miner.


"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-
Fargo's man, Ferguson. "If I was running this
shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive
glance at the barkeeper, who did not choose to see
it, since the man under discussion was a good cus-
tomer, and went home pretty well set up, every
night, with refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any
of you boys ever recollect of him asking you to take
a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous
general outburst in one form of words or another
from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat Riley,
miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's
another one. I can't make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and
if they are 15-puzzles, how are you going to rank
up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-
down solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of
them. Easy—don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He
was the new-comer—Peterson. He ordered the
drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.
All answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mys-


tery?" said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson. "Why,
the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody
wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy
Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order,
and said one at a time was best. He distributed the
drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson
said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we
know about him. You can pump him till you are
tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business,
or where he's from, and such things as that. And
as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main
big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face
—it's your privilege—but suppose you do, where do
you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct,
maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—
grown-ups, twenty-five; children and servants, half
price. Now I'll tell you what he can do. You can
start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide
wherever you want to, I don't care where it is,
nor how far—and he'll go straight and put his
finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though. Weather's nothing to him—


elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don't
even take notice of them."

"Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?"

"It's all the same to him. He don't give a
damn."

"Oh, say—including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it
like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted. "Go on,
Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with
the boys, and you can slip out and go to any cabin
in this camp and open a book—yes, sir, a dozen of
them—and take the page in your memory, and
he'll start out and go straight to that cabin and open
every one of them books at the right page, and call
it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell
you a perfectly wonderful thing that he done. The
other night he—"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds out-
side, the door flew open, and an excited crowd burst
in, with the camp's one white woman in the lead
and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For
the love of God help me to find Archy Stillman;
we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:


"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't
worry. He asked for a bed three hours ago, tuck-
ered out tramping the trails the way he's always do-
ing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up
and roust him out; he's in No. 14."

The youth was soon downstairs and ready. He
asked Mrs. Hogan for particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there
was. I put her to sleep at seven in the evening,
and when I went in there an hour ago to go to bed
myself, she was gone. I rushed for your cabin,
dear, and you wasn't there, and I've hunted for you
ever since, at every cabin down the gulch, and now
I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and
scared and heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've
found you at last, dear heart, and you'll find my
child. Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam. Go
to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the
hunt. All the southern half of the village was up,
a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns. The
mass fell into columns by threes and fours to accom-
modate itself to the narrow road, and strode briskly
along southward in the wake of the leaders. In a
few minutes the Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's
where she was; it's where I laid her at seven
o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."


"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it
on the hard earth floor and knelt by it, pretending
to examine the ground closely. "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there
and yonder with his finger. "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees
and did their best to see. One or two thought they
discerned something like a track; the others shook
their heads and confessed that the smooth hard
surface had no marks upon it which their eyes were
sharp enough to discover. One said, "Maybe a
child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't
see how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to
the ground, turned leftward, and moved three steps,
closely examining; then said, "I've got the direc-
tion—come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files follow-
ing, swaying and bending in and out with the deep
curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched
the sage-brush plain, dim, vast, and vague. Still-
man called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start wrong,
now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a
matter of twenty yards; then said, "Come on; it's all
right," and gave up the lantern. In and out among
the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bear-
ing gradually to the right; then took a new direction
and made another great semicircle; then changed


again and moved due west nearly half a mile—and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the
lantern. You can see where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was sur-
faced like steel, and no person in the party was
quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that could
detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.
The bereaved mother fell upon her knees and kissed
the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said. "She
didn't stay here. We can see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place,
with the lantern, pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone,
"I don't understand it." He examined again.
"No use. She was here—that's certain; she
never walked away from here—and that's certain.
It's a puzzle; I can't make it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying
beast has got her. I'll never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find
her—don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!"
and she seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in
Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place,
wasn't it? Hardly worth while to come so far,


though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well—hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He
said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't
been here? I tell you the child has been here!
Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as—"

"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, every-
body, and look at this! It was right under our
noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the
place where the child was alleged to have rested,
and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the
thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There
was a pause, then a several-barreled sigh of disap-
pointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in
the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and he
swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his
finger. "There—don't you recognize it now?
It's Injun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.
Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the
sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and
disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled
after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.


Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and
formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a
dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's
your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,
and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.
Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was
asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a
wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the
grateful tears running down her face, and in a
choked and broken voice she poured out a golden
stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments
which has its home in full richness nowhere but in
the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy ex-
plained. "She 'sleep out yonder, ve'y tired—face
wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed her,
she heap much hungry—go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived
rank and hugged him too, calling him "the angel of
God in disguise." And he probably was in disguise
if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed
for the character.

At half-past one in the morning the procession
burst into the village singing, "When Johnny Comes
Marching Home," waving its lanterns, and swal-
lowing the drinks that were brought out all along its
course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a
night of what was left of the morning.


CHAPTER VI.

The next afternoon the village was electrified with
an immense sensation. A grave and dignified
foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had
arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable
name upon the register:

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim
to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed
toward the centre of interest. A man passing out
at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat
Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buck-
ner's. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn
sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that
he should come just when …." He dropped
into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But
what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody
that knows him the way I do knows he can't
detect a crime except where he plans it all out
beforehand and arranges the clews and hires
some fellow to commit it according to instructions.
… Now there ain't going to be any clews this


time—so, what show has he got? None at all.
No, sir; everything's ready. If I was to risk put-
ting it off—.. No, I won't run any risk like that.
Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for
sure." Then another trouble presented itself.
"Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid
of him? for I've got to be at my cabin a minute or
two about eight o'clock." This was an awkward
matter, and cost him much thought. But he found
a way to beat the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk,
and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so that he
won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along
when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that's the
safest—I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was
blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a
glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake
Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any
luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-bag-
gage lockup, which looked into the detective's room
across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, am-
bushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in
the window-blind. Mr. Holmes's blinds were down;
but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a
hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves
face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had


filled the world with the fame of his more than
human ingenuities. There he sat—not a myth, not
a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed
voice. "By gracious! that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep
reverence. "Look at his nose! look at his eyes!
Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.
"Comes from thought—that's what it comes from.
Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought
is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What
we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that
frown—that's deep thinking—away down, down,
forty fathom into the bowels of things. He's on
the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say—
look at that awful gravity—look at that pallid sol-
emnness—there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n by
hereditary rights, too; he's been dead four times
a'ready, and there's history for it. Three times
natural, once by accident. I've heard say he smells
damp and cold, like a grave. And he—"

"'Sh! Watch him! There—he's got his
thumb on the bump on the near corner of his fore-
head, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-


works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other
shirt."

"That's so. And now he's gazing up toward
heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his
clews together on his left fingers with his right
finger. See? he touches the forefinger—now mid-
dle finger—now ring-finger—"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl! He can't seem to make
out that clew. So he—"

"See him smile!—like a tiger—and tally off the
other fingers like nothing! He's got it, boys; he's
got it sure!"

"Well, I should say! I'd hate to be in that
man's place that he's after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down
with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write.
The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes,
lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfort-
able smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use calking, he's a wonder! He's
got the signs of it all over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that,
Wells-Fargo," said Jake Parker. "Say, wouldn't
it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Fergu-
son. "Then we'd have seen scientific work. Intel-
lect—just pure intellect—away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don't


become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you.
But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an
owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand
natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime
as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awful-
ness and marvelousness no more to be compared to
what this man does than—than— Why, let me
tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped
over to Hogan's and glanced—just glanced, that's
all—at the premises, and that's enough. See
everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and
he'd know more about that place than the Hogans
would know in seven years. Next, he would sit
down on the bunk, just as ca'm, and say to Mrs.
Hogan—Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs.
Hogan. I'll ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please—attention—do not let
your mind wander. Now, then—sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um—female. Very good, very good. Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um—young, weak—two miles. Weariness
will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep.
We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.
'You see, boys, he knows a clew when he sees it,
when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody
else. 'Stockings, madam? Shoes?'


"'Yes, your Honor—both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um—kip. This complicates the matter. How-
ever, let it go—we shall manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed
blanket, please. Ah, thanks. Part wool—foreign
make. Very well. A snip from some garment of
the child's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows
wear. An excellent clew, excellent. Pass me a
pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks,
many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now
we know where we are, I think.' You see, boys,
he's got all the clews he wants now; he don't need
anything more. Now, then, what does this Ex-
traordinary Man do? He lays those snips and that
dirt out on the table and leans over them on his
elbows, and puts them together side by side and
studies them—mumbles to himself, 'Female';
changes them around—mumbles, 'Six years old';
changes them this way and that—again mumbles:
'Five teeth—one a-coming—Catholic—yarn—
cotton—kip—damn that kip.' Then he straightens
up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands
through his hair—plows and plows, muttering,
'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and frowns,
and begins to tally off his clews on his fingers—and
gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only just a min-
ute—then his face glares all up in a smile like a


house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a
couple of you, and go down to Injun Billy's and
fetch the child—the rest of you go 'long home to
bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And
he bows like the Matterhorn, and pulls out for the
tavern. That's his style, and the Only—scientific,
intellectual—all over in fifteen minutes—no pok-
ing around all over the sage-brush range an hour
and a half in a mass-meeting crowd for him, boys—
you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.
"Wells-Fargo, you've got him down to a dot.
He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him—can't you,
boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's
what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,
and grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness
a little while, then he murmured, with a deep awe in
his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham
Sandwich said, reverently,

"Not all at one time, I reckon."


CHAPTER VII.

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were
groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin
in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes
and his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said
Fetlock, "while I run to my cabin; I won't be gone
a minute."

He asked for something—the uncle furnished it
—then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon re-
turned, and the talking-walk was resumed. By nine
o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.
They worked their way through the billiard-room,
where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting
a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royal cheer
was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compli-
ment with a series of courtly bows, and as he was
passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentle-
men, that 'll keep him till twelve or one; but he'll be
down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes
some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three
cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that


ever lived!" shouted Ferguson. "Hip, hip
hip—"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the
feeling the boys put into their welcome. Upstairs
the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying,

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do
you, uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any ex-
clusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The boys
admire you; but if you was to leave without taking
a drink with them, they'd set you down for a snob.
And besides, you said you had home talk enough
in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise—the uncle acknowl-
edged it. The boy was wise in another detail which
he did not mention,—except to himself: "Uncle
and the others will come handy—in the way of nail-
ing an alibi where it can't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three
hours. Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped
downstairs and took a position in the dark a dozen
steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes
later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-
room and almost brushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He con-
tinued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:
"Good-by—good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you
called my mother a—well, never mind what: it's all
right, now; you're taking your last walk, friend."


He went musing back into the tavern. "From
now till one is an hour. We'll spend it with the
boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-
room, which was jammed with eager and admiring
miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun be-
gan. Everybody was happy; everybody was com-
plimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anec-
dotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the
jollity was at its highest—

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound
came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up
the gorge, then died down, and ceased. The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,
saying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,

"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon—Holmes,
Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody. They made
the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern
they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint
Buckner's cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige
remained, not a rag nor a splinter. Nor any sign of
Flint. Search parties sought here and there and
yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they had


found him—that is, they had found a crushed and
lifeless mass which represented him. Fetlock Jones
hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham
Sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the
verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:
that "deceased came to his death by his own act or
some other person or persons unknown to this jury
not leaving any family or similar effects behind but
his cabin which was blown away and God have
mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,
for the storm-centre of interest was there—Sher-
lock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent
in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacant space which
included the front exposure of the site of the late
premises. In this considerable space the Extraor-
dinary Man was moving about, attended by his
nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took meas-
urements of the cabin site; of the distance from the
wall of chaparral to the road; of the height of the
chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.
He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch
of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly, and
preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place
with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for
magnetic variation. He took the time (Pacific) by
his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off
the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and


corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the
altitude with a pocket-aneroid, and the temperature
with a pocket-thermometer. Finally he said, with a
stately bow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and
the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and
admiring the Extraordinary Man, and interlarding
guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the
author of it might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here—hey,
boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham
Sandwich. "It 'll go all over the world; you mark
my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith.
"It 'll boom this camp. Ain't it so, Wells-
Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion—if it's any sign
of how I think about it, I can tell you this: yester-
day I was holding the Straight Flush claim at two
dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get
it at sixteen to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest
luck a new camp ever struck. Say, did you see him
collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an
eye! He just can't overlook a clew—'tain't in him."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing to
anybody else; but to him, why, they're just a book
—large print at that."


"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends have
got their little old secret, and they think there ain't
anybody can pull it; but, land! when he sets his
grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you for-
get it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to
roust out the child; this is a bigger thing, by a long
sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up and scientific
and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this
way. Glad? 'George! it ain't any name for it.
Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something if
he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of
how that man works the system. But no; he went
poking up into the chaparral and just missed the
whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,
Archy's young. He'll know better one of these
days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a
world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were
mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were
discarded as not being eligible. No one but young
Hillyer had been intimate with Flint Buckner; no
one had really had a quarrel with him; he had
affronted every man who had tried to make up to
him, although not quite offensively enough to require
bloodshed. There was one name that was upon
every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get


utterance—Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that
mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all
thought of him, because he had a million rights to
kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to
do it. But all the same there's two things we can't
get around: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand;
and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place
when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the
billiard-room with us when it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before
it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have
been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for
that."


CHAPTER VIII.

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its
furniture save one six-foot pine table and a
chair. This table was against one end of the room;
the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, im-
posing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public
stood. The room was full. The tobacco smoke
was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to com-
mand additional silence; held it in the air a few
moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with
"Um-ums," nods of the head, and so on. By this
process he learned all about Flint Buckner, his char-
acter, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordi-
nary Man's nephew was the only person in the camp
who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the wit-
ness, and asked, languidly—

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where
the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the ex-
plosion?"

A thunderous response followed—


"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far
might it be to the scene of the explosion?"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but—"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts
of "By jiminy, but he's chain-lightning!" and
"Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped
his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor
resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection
with the case" (laughter) "having been disposed
of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy,
and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clews and arranged
them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The
house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, cor-
rected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the
exact location of the tragedy. We have the altitude,
the temperature, and the degree of humidity pre-
vailing—inestimably valuable, since they enable us
to estimate with precision the degree of influence
which they would exercise upon the mood and dis-
position of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By
George, but he's deep!") He fingered his clews.


"And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak
to us.

"Here we have an empty linen shotbag. What is
its message? This: that robbery was the motive,
not revenge. What is its further message? This:
that the assassin was of inferior intelligence—shall
we say light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?
How do we know this? Because a person of sound
intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.
But the assassin might have been a stranger? Let
the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It
is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Ex-
amine it, please—you—and you—and you. Now
pass it back, please. There is but one lode on this
coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly
two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is des-
tined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a
globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred
owners riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name
that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary
Ann!" was the prompt response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man
reached for his neighbor's hand and wrung it, with
tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo Ferguson
shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up
she goes to a hundred and fifty a foot—you hear
me!"


When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are estab-
lished, to wit: the assassin was approximately light-
witted; he was not a stranger; his motive was rob-
bery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my
hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell
of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken
with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it re-
veals to us that the assassin was a miner. What
does it tell us further? This, gentlemen: that the
assassination was consummated by means of an ex-
plosive. What else does it say? This: that the ex-
plosive was located against the side of the cabin
nearest the road—the front side—for within six
feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match—
the kind one rubs on a safety-box. I found it in the
road, 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does
it say? This: that the train was fired from that
point. What further does it tell us? This: that the
assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I
should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen,
how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only
long experience and deep study can enable one to
detect them. But the signs are here, and they are
reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives—that all
assassins are left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham Sandwich,
bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap


upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several. "Oh,
there can't anything escape him—look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his
doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury.
This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you
struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he
bears the telltale mark. I picked it up where he
stood when he fired the fatal train." He looked
out over the house from his high perch, and his
countenance began to darken; he slowly raised his
hand, and pointed—

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with
amazement; then twenty voices burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer? Oh, hell, no! Him? It's
pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen—be not hasty. Observe
—he has the blood-mark on his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright. He was near to
crying. He turned this way and that, appealing to
every face for help and sympathy; and held out his
supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to
plead:

"Don't, oh, don't! I never did it; I give my
word I never did it. The way I got this hurt on
my forehead was—"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes. "I
will swear out the warrant."


The constable moved reluctantly forward—hesi-
tated—stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal. "Oh,
Archy, don't let them do it; it would kill mother!
You know how I got the hurt. Tell them, and
save me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you. Don't be afraid." Then
he said to the house, "Never mind how he got the
hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case, and
isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy! Go in, boy, and play 'em
a knock-down flush to their two pair 'n' a jack!"
shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly
in the public heart and changing the whole attitude
of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease;
then he said,

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door
yonder, and Constable Harris to stand by the other
one here, and not let anybody leave the room."

"Said and done. Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe. I will show
him to you before long, in case I am right in my
guess. Now I will tell you all about the tragedy,
from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery;
it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted.
He didn't stand 622 feet away. He didn't get hit


with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explo-
sive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the ex-
ception of these errors, the distinguished guest's
statement of the case is substantially correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house;
friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, "That's
the word, with the bark on it. Good lad, good boy.
He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman
resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently
tell you where you can find some more." He held
up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned their
necks to see. "It has a smooth coating of melted
tallow on it. And here is a candle which is burned
half-way down. The remaining half of it has marks
cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where
I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings,
guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends
of clews together, and the other showy theatricals of
the detective trade, and tell you in a plain, straight-
forward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect—to allow silence
and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's
interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good
deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious,
and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one.
It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off


all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place,
he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart, and lit
it and timed it. He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an
hour, awhile ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry
into Flint Buckner's character and ways was being
conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at
the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered
from the wind. Having proved his trial-candle's
rate, he blew it out—I have already shown it to you
—and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.
Then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through
the candle with a red-hot wire. I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on
it—tallow that had been melted and had cooled.

"With labor—very hard labor, I should say—
he struggled up through the stiff chaparral that
clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him. He
placed it in that absolutely secure hiding-place, and
in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he
measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse—the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He
bored a hole in the side of the barrel—here is the
large gimlet he did it with. He went on and
finished his work; and when it was done, one end of
the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end,
with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was
in the hole in the candle—timed to blow the place


up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle
was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening—
which I am betting it was—and provided there was
an explosive in the cabin and connected with that
end of the fuse—which I am also betting there was,
though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in
the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin
stick; the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the
other end is down the hill where the late cabin
stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when
the Professor here was measuring off unimplicated
vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything
to do with the case."

He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath,
shook its strained cords and muscles free and burst
into cheers. "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral,
instead of picking up points out of the P'fessor's
game. Looky here—he ain't no fool, boys."

"No, sir! Why, great Scott—"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago,
the owner of the gimlet and the trial-candle took
them from a place where he had concealed them—
it was not a good place—and carried them to what
he probably thought was a better one, two hundred
yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles. It was there
that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole
in the barrel. And now—"


The Extraordinary Man interrupted him. He
said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy-tale, gentlemen
—very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this
young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said,

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.
Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy-tale in
a consecutive and orderly way—by geometrical
progression, so to speak—linking detail to detail in
a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent
and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy-fortress
of error, the dream-fabric of a callow imagination.
To begin with, young sir, I desire to ask you but
three questions at present—at present. Did I
understand you to say it was your opinion that the
supposititious candle was lighted at about eight
o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir—about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um. If a person had been passing along there
just about that time, he would have been almost sure
to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all. For the present. I say,
all for the present."

"Dern him! he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.


"It's so," said Ham Sandwich. "I don't like
the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest,

"I was along there myself at half past eight—
no, about nine."

"In-deed? This is interesting—this is very in-
teresting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah. Then—if you will excuse the remark—I
do not quite see the relevancy of the information."

"It has none. At present. I say it has none—
at present."

He paused. Presently he resumed: "I did not
encounter the assassin, but I am on his track, I am
sure, for I believe he is in this room. I will ask you
all to pass one by one in front of me—here, where
there is a good light—so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the
march began, the guest looking on with an iron
attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified suc-
cess. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet
as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by
—with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked,
with suave irony,

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed it-
self with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more can-
didates tramped by—no, danced by, with airy and



Stillman accuses Sherlock Holmes




ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators—
then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said,

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared
the crowd; and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explo-
sion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks in-
spired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched
out his hand, commanding peace. The authority of
a great name and a great personality laid its mysteri-
ous compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.
Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guest
spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life.
Innocent beyond suspicion! Innocent beyond per-
adventure! Hear me prove it; observe how simple
a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.
Listen. My friends, that lad was never out of my
sight yesterday evening at any time!"

It made a deep impression. Men turned their
eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them.
His face brightened, and he said,

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped
briskly to the table and glanced at the guest's feet,
then up at his face, and said: "You were with him!
You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the
candle that by and by fired the powder!" (Sensa-
tion.) "And what is more, you furnished the
matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the


public. He opened his mouth to speak; the words
did not come freely.

"This—er—this is insanity—this—"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He
held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel
—and there's another one there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes—and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax—a breed unknown to this camp. I
am ready to be searched for the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time—the dullest
eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands; once
or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come.
The house waited and watched, in tense suspense,
the stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently
Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments;
then the guest answered, in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about
the house one voice after another muttered:

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It
was an embarrassing situation for the moment—
merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed
minds were not prepared for it, and had come to a


standstill, like a stopped clock, under the shock.
But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their
heads together and privately buzzed over this and
that and the other proposition. One of these
propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer
upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint
Buckner, and let him go. But the cooler heads op-
posed it, pointing out that addled brains in the East-
ern States would pronounce it a scandal, and make
no end of foolish noise about it. Finally the cool
heads got the upper hand, and obtained general con-
sent to a proposition of their own; their leader then
called the house to order and stated it—to this effect:
that Fetlock Jones be jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was
nothing further to do now, and the people were glad,
for, privately, they were impatient to get out and
rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that
barrel and the other things were really there or not.

But no—the break-up got a check. The sur-
prises were not over yet. For a while Fetlock Jones
had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorb-
ing excitements which had been following one an-
other so persistently for some time; but when his
arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despair-
ingly, and said:

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't
want any trial; I've had all the hard luck I want,
and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let me


out! It would all come out, anyway—there
couldn't anything save me. He has told it all, just
as if he'd been with me and seen it—I don't know
how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and
things, and then I wouldn't have any chance any
more. I killed him; and you'd have done it too, if
he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy,
and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in
Ham Sandwich. "Looky here, boys—"

From the constable: "Order! Order, gentle-
men!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was
up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted
them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that,
how did you venture to risk having him along—and
him a detective? How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an
embarrassed way, then said, shyly,

"I know about detectives, on account of having
them in the family; and if you don't want them to
find out about a thing, it's best to have them around
when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this naïve
discharge of wisdom did not modify the poor little
waif's embarrassment in any large degree.


CHAPTER IX.

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely
"Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log
cabin, and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him
with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard
over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship,
and helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I
acted as first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief. Just as we
had finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an
old hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I
had chased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to my per-
ishing hope!In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled
to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chat-
tering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God
is my witness I have never done any man harm!"A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was
my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the
misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys
lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him,
and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up
and don't be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take
care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on
him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys

are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just
like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the
opposite side of that muscle. They did everything they could think of
to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who
is a clever strategist, said,"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't
worry any more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly."Because he's dead again.""Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is
he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?""True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all
backed up the statement in a body."They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson,
clinching the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you. Mis-
took him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now.""They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with
the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew."James Walker" drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—
and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his
countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all
went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp
could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and
I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and
made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the
right word, and a pity, too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon
his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;
though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate,
we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice
at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I
cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.the "wrong man's" story.It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many
years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't—but it
isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would
be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years
before—in the East.I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin
of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was

all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little
time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was pub-
lished, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.
It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake
they are sorry, but it is too late,—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes,
you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run
away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then
I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains some-
where, and lived disguised and had a false name.I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made
me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear
on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up,
because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits
and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the
night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my
bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged
out, because I got no good rest.And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll
never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to
the people."They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.
He can be here in twelve days."They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my
heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would
be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and
tireless energies.The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the
middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag
that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are
in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on
my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name
on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget
Barclay" in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and
keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a
deer.He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—
the Pacific States, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of;
then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any
rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left

of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me,
yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-
heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where
it struck.We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest
and Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as
he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabili-
tate his fortunes.The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship
handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich
called us softly out, and said, privately:"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has
spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from
everywhere, and are going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is
in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they
chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in
time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my
deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the
sheriff, but for reassurance's sake I asked,"Can he stop a mob?""Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I
should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he!
Oh, I say!"As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose
faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.
Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and
at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area
in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the
calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if
any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was
master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear."Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shad-
belly Higgins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?""Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd be alive again
in a week; burning's the only permanency for him."
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash
of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and
closed around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged
him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and
piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face
did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips."A match! fetch a match!"Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it
under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone
caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to
catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more
and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did
not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another,
stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to
spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner
stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The
hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down
upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—"The sheriff!"And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse
almost on his hind feet, and said,"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground,
and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly,
and said:"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away.
Now unchain the stranger."The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech;
sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any
touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and
in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impres-
sively disrespectful."You're a nice lot—now ain't you? Just about eligible to travel
with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that
shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there's any-
thing I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen
one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one be-
fore it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up
of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine

times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused—appar-
ently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—
then he went on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away
from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there
was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America
last year. By the way it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease
in the doctor books—sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him—
any one could see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes;
got the same old thing.' And next there'll be a new title. People
won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance;
they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of
a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you,
and what have you been doing?""My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing any-
thing."It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name
made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He
spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man
whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their
ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by
the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under
the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the
name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow,
and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself
personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the
mob and said:"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said:
"Follow me, Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No—keep
your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you be-
hind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundred
and eighty-two;" and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time,
we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up
in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him
out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.
CHAPTER X.

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind
shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow
morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep
this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb
his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of
was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the
real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a
century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There,
mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my
father is in his grave. Let him rest.

THE END.