Title: The Strand Magazine, Volume XVII, February 1899, No. 98.
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Strand Magazine, Volume XVII, February 1899, No. 98." ***


[Illustration: "'JOHN,' SHE CRIED, PASSIONATELY, 'I WILL NEVER ABANDON
YOU!'" (_See page 133._)]



  THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

  Vol. xvii.      FEBRUARY, 1899.      No. 98.



_Round the Fire._

IX.--THE STORY OF THE JEW'S BREAST-PLATE.

By A. Conan Doyle.


My particular friend Ward Mortimer was one of the best men of his day at
everything connected with Oriental archæology. He had written largely
upon the subject, he had lived two years in a tomb at Thebes, while he
had excavated in the Valley of the Kings, and finally he had created a
considerable sensation by his exhumation of the alleged mummy of
Cleopatra in the inner room of the Temple of Horus, at Philæ. With such
a record at the age of thirty-one, it was felt that a considerable
career lay before him, and no one was surprised when he was elected to
the curatorship of the Belmore Street Museum, which carries with it the
lectureship at the Oriental College, and an income which has sunk with
the fall in land, but which still remains at that ideal sum which is
large enough to encourage an investigator, and not so large as to
enervate him.

There was only one reason which made Ward Mortimer's position a little
difficult at the Belmore Street Museum, and that was the extreme
eminence of the man whom he had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a
profound scholar and a man of European reputation. His lectures were
frequented by students from every part of the world, and his admirable
management of the collection intrusted to his care was a common-place in
all learned societies. There was, therefore, considerable surprise when,
at the age of fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position and retired
from those duties which had been both his livelihood and his pleasure.
He and his daughter left the comfortable suite of rooms which had formed
his official residence in connection with the museum, and my friend,
Mortimer, who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer's appointment Professor Andreas had written him a
very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter, but I was actually
present at their first meeting, and I went with Mortimer round the
museum when the Professor showed us the admirable collection which he
had cherished so long. The Professor's beautiful daughter and a young
man, Captain Wilson, who was, as I understood, soon to be her husband,
accompanied us in our inspection. There were fifteen rooms in all, but
the Babylonian, the Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the
Jewish and Egyptian collection, were the finest of all. Professor
Andreas was a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an
impassive manner, but his dark eyes sparkled and his features quickened
into enthusiastic life as he pointed out to us the rarity and the beauty
of some of his specimens. His hand lingered so fondly over them, that
one could read his pride in them and the grief in his heart now that
they were passing from his care into that of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare scarabs, his
inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the famous
seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying at this instant in the
bed of the Tiber. Then he approached a case which stood in the very
centre of the hall, and he looked down through the glass with reverence
in his attitude and manner.

"This is no novelty to an expert like yourself, Mr. Mortimer," said he;
"but I daresay that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be interested to see
it."

Leaning over the case I saw an object, some five inches square, which
consisted of twelve precious stones in a framework of gold, with golden
hooks at two of the corners. The stones were all varying in sort and
colour, but they were of the same size. Their shapes, arrangement, and
gradation of tint made me think of a box of water-colour paints. Each
stone had some hieroglyphic scratched upon its surface.

"You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the urim and thummim?"

I had heard the term, but my idea of its meaning was exceedingly vague.

"The urim and thummim was a name given to the jewelled plate which lay
upon the breast of the high priest of the Jews. They had a very special
feeling of reverence for it--something of the feeling which an ancient
Roman might have for the Sibylline books in the Capitol. There are, as
you see, twelve magnificent stones, inscribed with mystical characters.
Counting from the left-hand top corner, the stones are carnelian,
peridot, emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx, sapphire, agate, amethyst,
topaz, beryl, and jasper."

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of the stones.

"Has the breast-plate any particular history?" I asked.

[Illustration: "'IT IS OF GREAT AGE AND OF IMMENSE VALUE,' SAID
PROFESSOR ANDREAS."]

"It is of great age and of immense value," said Professor Andreas.
"Without being able to make an absolute assertion, we have many reasons
to think that it is possible that it may be the original urim and
thummim of Solomon's Temple. There is certainly nothing so fine in any
collection in Europe. My friend, Captain Wilson here, is a practical
authority upon precious stones, and he would tell you how pure these
are."

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard, incisive face, was standing
beside his _fiancée_ at the other side of the case.

"Yes," said he, curtly, "I have never seen finer stones."

"And the gold-work is also worthy of attention. The ancients excelled
in----"--he was apparently about to indicate the setting of the stones,
when Captain Wilson interrupted him.

"You will see a finer example of their gold-work in this candlestick,"
said he, turning to another table, and we all joined him in his
admiration of its embossed stem and delicately ornamented branches.
Altogether it was an interesting and a novel experience to have objects
of such rarity explained by so great an expert; and when, finally,
Professor Andreas finished our inspection by formally handing over the
precious collection to the care of my friend, I could not help pitying
him and envying his successor whose life was to pass in so pleasant a
duty. Within a week, Ward Mortimer was duly installed in his new set of
rooms, and had become the autocrat of the Belmore Street Museum.

About a fortnight afterwards my friend gave a small dinner to
half-a-dozen bachelor friends to celebrate his promotion. When his
guests were departing he pulled my sleeve and signalled to me that he
wished me to remain.

"You have only a few hundred yards to go," said he--I was living in
chambers in the Albany. "You may as well stay and have a quiet cigar
with me. I very much want your advice."

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one of his excellent Matronas. When
he had returned from seeing the last of his guests out, he drew a letter
from his dress-jacket and sat down opposite to me.

"This is an anonymous letter which I received this morning," said he. "I
want to read it to you and to have your advice."

"You are very welcome to it for what it is worth."

"This is how the note runs: 'Sir,--I should strongly advise you to keep
a very careful watch over the many valuable things which are committed
to your charge. I do not think that the present system of a single
watchman is sufficient. Be upon your guard, or an irreparable misfortune
may occur.'"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all."

"Well," said I, "it is at least obvious that it was written by one of
the limited number of people who are aware that you have only one
watchman at night."

Ward Mortimer handed me the note, with a curious smile. "Have you an eye
for handwriting?" said he. "Now, look at this!" He put another letter in
front of me. "Look at the _c_ in 'congratulate' and the _c_ in
'committed.' Look at the capital _I_. Look at the trick of putting in a
dash instead of a stop!"

"They are undoubtedly from the same hand--with some attempt at disguise
in the case of this first one."

"The second," said Ward Mortimer, "is the letter of congratulation which
was written to me by Professor Andreas upon my obtaining my
appointment."

I stared at him in amazement. Then I turned over the letter in my hand,
and there, sure enough, was "Martin Andreas" signed upon the other side.
There could be no doubt, in the mind of anyone who had the slightest
knowledge of the science of graphology, that the Professor had written
an anonymous letter, warning his successor against thieves. It was
inexplicable, but it was certain.

"Why should he do it?" I asked.

"Precisely what I should wish to ask you. If he had any such misgivings,
why could he not come and tell me direct?"

"Will you speak to him about it?"

"There again I am in doubt. He might choose to deny that he wrote it."

"At any rate," said I, "this warning is meant in a friendly spirit, and
I should certainly act upon it. Are the present precautions enough to
insure you against robbery?"

"I should have thought so. The public are only admitted from ten till
five, and there is a guardian to every two rooms. He stands at the door
between them, and so commands them both."

"But at night?"

[Illustration: "THIS WARNING IS MEANT IN A FRIENDLY SPIRIT."]

"When the public are gone, we at once put up the great iron shutters,
which are absolutely burglar-proof. The watchman is a capable fellow. He
sits in the lodge, but he walks round every three hours. We keep one
electric light burning in each room all night."

"It is difficult to suggest anything more--short of keeping your day
watchers all night."

"We could not afford that."

"At least, I should communicate with the police, and have a special
constable put on outside in Belmore Street," said I. "As to the letter,
if the writer wishes to be anonymous, I think he has a right to remain
so. We must trust to the future to show some reason for the curious
course which he has adopted."

So we dismissed the subject, but all that night after my return to my
chambers I was puzzling my brain as to what possible motive Professor
Andreas could have for writing an anonymous warning letter to his
successor--for that the writing was his was as certain to me as if I had
seen him actually doing it. He foresaw some danger to the collection.
Was it because he foresaw it that he abandoned his charge of it? But if
so, why should he hesitate to warn Mortimer in his own name? I puzzled
and puzzled until at last I fell into a troubled sleep, which carried me
beyond my usual hour of rising.

I was aroused in a singular and effective method, for about nine o'clock
my friend Mortimer rushed into my room with an expression of
consternation upon his face. He was usually one of the most tidy men of
my acquaintance, but now his collar was undone at one end, his tie was
flying, and his hat at the back of his head. I read his whole story in
his frantic eyes.

"The museum has been robbed!" I cried, springing up in bed.

"I fear so! Those jewels! The jewels of the urim and thummim!" he
gasped, for he was out of breath with running. "I'm going on to the
police-station. Come to the museum as soon as you can, Jackson!
Good-bye!" He rushed distractedly out of the room, and I heard him
clatter down the stairs.

I was not long in following his directions, but I found when I arrived
that he had already returned with a police inspector, and another
elderly gentleman, who proved to be Mr. Purvis, one of the partners of
Morson and Company, the well-known diamond merchants. As an expert in
stones he was always prepared to advise the police. They were grouped
round the case in which the breast-plate of the Jewish priest had been
exposed. The plate had been taken out and laid upon the glass top of the
case, and the three heads were bent over it.

"It is obvious that it has been tampered with," said Mortimer. "It
caught my eye the moment that I passed through the room this morning. I
examined it yesterday evening, so that it is certain that this has
happened during the night."

It was, as he had said, obvious that someone had been at work upon it.
The settings of the uppermost row of four stones--the carnelian,
peridot, emerald, and ruby--were rough and jagged as if someone had
scraped all round them. The stones were in their places, but the
beautiful gold work which we had admired only a few days before had been
very clumsily pulled about.

"It looks to me," said the police inspector, "as if someone had been
trying to take out the stones."

"My fear is," said Mortimer, "that he not only tried, but succeeded. I
believe these four stones to be skilful imitations which have been put
in the place of the originals."

The same suspicion had evidently been in the mind of the expert, for he
had been carefully examining the four stones with the aid of a lens. He
now submitted them to several tests, and finally turned cheerfully to
Mortimer.

"I congratulate you, sir," said he, heartily. "I will pledge my
reputation that all four of these stones are genuine, and of a most
unusual degree of purity."

The colour began to come back to my poor friend's frightened face, and
he drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank God!" he cried, "Then what in the world did the thief want?"

"Probably he meant to take the stones, but was interrupted."

"In that case one would expect him to take them out one at a time, but
the setting of each of these has been loosened, and yet the stones are
all here."

"It is certainly most extraordinary," said the inspector. "I never
remember a case like it. Let us see the watchman."

The commissionaire was called--a soldierly, honest-faced man, who seemed
as concerned as Ward Mortimer at the incident.

"No, sir, I never heard a sound," he answered, in reply to the questions
of the inspector. "I made my rounds four times, as usual, but I saw
nothing suspicious. I've been in my position ten years, but nothing of
the kind has ever occurred before."

"No thief could have come through the windows?"

"Impossible, sir."

"Or passed you at the door?"

"No, sir; I never left my post except when I walked my rounds."

"What other openings are there into the museum?"

"There is the door into Mr. Ward Mortimer's private rooms."

"That is locked at night," my friend explained, "and in order to reach
it anyone from the street would have to open the outside door as well."

"Your servants?"

"Their quarters are entirely separate."

"Well, well," said the inspector, "this is certainly very obscure.
However, there has been no harm done, according to Mr. Purvis."

"I will swear that those stones are genuine."

[Illustration: "I WILL SWEAR THAT THOSE STONES ARE GENUINE."]

"So that the case appears to be merely one of malicious damage. But none
the less, I should be very glad to go carefully round the premises, and
to see if we can find any trace to show us who your visitor may have
been."

His investigation, which lasted all the morning, was careful and
intelligent, but it led in the end to nothing. He pointed out to us that
there were two possible entrances to the museum which we had not
considered. The one was from the cellars by a trap-door opening in the
passage. The other through a skylight from the lumber-room, overlooking
that very chamber to which the intruder had penetrated. As neither the
cellar nor the lumber-room could be entered unless the thief was already
within the locked doors, the matter was not of any practical importance,
and the dust of cellar and attic assured us that no one had used either
one or the other. Finally, we ended as we began, without the slightest
clue as to how, why, or by whom the setting of these four jewels had
been tampered with.

There remained one course for Mortimer to take, and he took it. Leaving
the police to continue their fruitless researches, he asked me to
accompany him that afternoon in a visit to Professor Andreas. He took
with him the two letters, and it was his intention to openly tax his
predecessor with having written the anonymous warning, and to ask him to
explain the fact that he should have anticipated so exactly that which
had actually occurred. The Professor was living in a small villa in
Upper Norwood, but we were informed by the servant that he was away from
home. Seeing our disappointment, she asked us if we should like to see
Miss Andreas, and showed us into the modest drawing-room.

I have mentioned incidentally that the Professor's daughter was a very
beautiful girl. She was a blonde, tall and graceful, with a skin of that
delicate tint which the French call "mat," the colour of old ivory or of
the lighter petals of the sulphur rose. I was shocked, however, as she
entered the room to see how much she had changed in the last fortnight.
Her young face was haggard and her bright eyes heavy with trouble.

"Father has gone to Scotland," she said. "He seems to be tired, and has
had a good deal to worry him. He only left us yesterday."

"You look a little tired yourself, Miss Andreas," said my friend.

"I have been so anxious about father."

"Can you give me his Scotch address?"

"Yes, he is with his brother, the Rev. David Andreas, 1, Arran Villas,
Ardrossan."

Ward Mortimer made a note of the address, and we left without saying
anything as to the object of our visit. We found ourselves in Belmore
Street in the evening in exactly the same position in which we had been
in the morning. Our only clue was the Professor's letter, and my friend
had made up his mind to start for Ardrossan next day, and to get to the
bottom of the anonymous letter, when a new development came to alter our
plans.

Very early upon the following morning I was aroused from my sleep by a
tap upon my bedroom door. It was a messenger with a note from Mortimer.

"Do come round," it said; "the matter is becoming more and more
extraordinary."

When I obeyed his summons I found him pacing excitedly up and down the
central room, while the old soldier who guarded the premises stood with
military stiffness in a corner.

"My dear Jackson," he cried, "I am so delighted that you have come, for
this is a most inexplicable business."

"What has happened, then?"

He waved his hand towards the case which contained the breast-plate.

"Look at it," said he.

I did so, and could not restrain a cry of surprise. The setting of the
middle row of precious stones had been profaned in the same manner as
the upper ones. Of the twelve jewels, eight had been now tampered with
in this singular fashion. The setting of the lower four was still neat
and smooth. The others jagged and irregular.

"Have the stones been altered?" I asked.

"No, I am certain that these upper four are the same which the expert
pronounced to be genuine, for I observed yesterday that little
discoloration on the edge of the emerald. Since they have not extracted
the upper stones, there is no reason to think that the lower have been
transposed. You say that you heard nothing, Simpson?"

"No, sir," the commissionaire answered. "But when I made my round after
daylight I had a special look at these stones, and I saw at once that
someone had been meddling with them. Then I called you, sir, and told
you. I was backwards and forwards all the night, and I never saw a soul
or heard a sound."

"Come up and have some breakfast with me," said Mortimer, and he took me
into his own chambers.

"Now, what _do_ you think of this, Jackson?" he asked.

"It is the most objectless, futile, idiotic business that ever I heard
of. It can only be the work of a monomaniac."

"Can you put forward any theory?"

[Illustration: "I NEVER SAW A SOUL OR HEARD A SOUND."]

A curious idea came into my head. "This object is a Jewish relic of
great antiquity and sanctity," said I. "How about the anti-Semitic
movement? Could one conceive that a fanatic of that way of thinking
might desecrate----"

"No, no, no!" cried Mortimer. "That will never do! Such a man might push
his lunacy to the length of destroying a Jewish relic, but why on earth
should he nibble round every stone so carefully that he can only do four
stones in a night? We must have a better solution than that, and we must
find it for ourselves, for I do not think that our inspector is likely
to help us. First of all, what do you think of Simpson, the porter?"

"Have you any reason to suspect him?"

"Only that he is the one person on the premises."

"But why should he indulge in such wanton destruction? Nothing has been
taken away. He has no motive."

"Mania?"

"No, I will swear to his sanity."

"Have you any other theory?"

"Well, yourself, for example. You are not a somnambulist, by any
chance?"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you."

"Then I give it up."

"But I don't--and I have a plan by which we will make it all clear."

"To visit Professor Andreas?"

"No, we shall find our solution nearer than Scotland. I will tell you
what we shall do. You know that skylight which overlooks the central
hall? We will leave the electric lights in the hall, and we will keep
watch in the lumber-room, you and I, and solve the mystery for
ourselves. If our mysterious visitor is doing four stones at a time, he
has four still to do, and there is every reason to think that he will
return to-night and complete the job."

"Excellent!" I cried.

"We shall keep our own secret, and say nothing either to the police or
to Simpson. Will you join me?"

"With the utmost pleasure," said I, and so it was agreed.

It was ten o'clock that night when I returned to the Belmore Street
Museum. Mortimer was, as I could see, in a state of suppressed nervous
excitement, but it was still too early to begin our vigil, so we
remained for an hour or so in his chambers, discussing all the
possibilities of the singular business which we had met to solve. At
last the roaring stream of hansom cabs and the rush of hurrying feet
became lower and more intermittent as the pleasure-seekers passed on
their way to their stations or their homes. It was nearly twelve when
Mortimer led the way to the lumber-room which overlooked the central
hall of the museum.

He had visited it during the day, and had spread some sacking so that we
could lie at our ease, and look straight down into the museum. The
skylight was of unfrosted glass, but was so covered with dust that it
would be impossible for anyone looking up from below to detect that he
was overlooked. We cleared a small piece at each corner, which gave us a
complete view of the room beneath us. In the cold, white light of the
electric lamps everything stood out hard and clear, and I could see the
smallest detail of the contents of the various cases.

Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since one has no choice but to look
hard at those objects which we usually pass with such half-hearted
interest. Through my little peep-hole I employed the hours in studying
every specimen, from the huge mummy-case which leaned against the wall
to those very jewels which had brought us there, which gleamed and
sparkled in their glass case immediately beneath us. There was much
precious gold-work and many valuable stones scattered through the
numerous cases, but those wonderful twelve which made up the urim and
thummim glowed and burned with a radiance which far eclipsed the others.
I studied in turn the tomb-pictures of Sicara, the friezes from Karnak,
the statues of Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes, but my eyes
would always come back to that wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to
the singular mystery which surrounded it. I was lost in the thought of
it when my companion suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and seized my
arm in a convulsive grip. At the same instant I saw what it was which
had excited him.

I have said that against the wall--on the right-hand side of the doorway
(the right-hand side as we looked at it, but the left as one
entered)--there stood a large mummy-case. To our unutterable amazement
it was slowly opening. Gradually, gradually, the lid was swinging back,
and the black slit which marked the opening was becoming wider and
wider. So gently and carefully was it done that the movement was quite
imperceptible. Then, as we breathlessly watched it, a white, thin hand
appeared at the opening, pushing back the painted lid, then another
hand, and finally a face--a face which was familiar to us both, that of
Professor Andreas. Stealthily he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning incessantly to left and to
right, stepping, then pausing, then stepping again, the very image of
craft and of caution. Once some sound in the street struck him
motionless, and he stood listening, with his ear turned, ready to dart
back to the shelter behind him. Then he crept onwards again upon tiptoe,
very, very softly and slowly, until he had reached the case in the
centre of the room. Then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket,
unlocked the case, took out the Jewish breast-plate, and, laying it upon
the glass in front of him, began to work upon it with some sort of
small, glistening tool. He was so directly underneath us that his bent
head covered his work, but we could guess from the movement of his hand
that he was engaged in finishing the strange disfigurement which he had
begun.

[Illustration: "THIS HE OPENED SOFTLY WITH HIS KEY."]

I could realize from the heavy breathing of my companion, and the
twitchings of the hand which still clutched my wrist, the furious
indignation which filled his heart as he saw this vandalism in the very
quarter of all others where he could least have expected it. He, the
very man who a fortnight before had reverently bent over this unique
relic, and who had impressed its antiquity and its sanctity upon us, was
now engaged in this outrageous profanation. It was impossible,
unthinkable--and yet there, in the white glare of the electric light
beneath us, was that dark figure with the bent, grey head, and the
twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy, what hateful depth of malice
against his successor must underlie these sinister nocturnal labours. It
was painful to think of and dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of
the acute feelings of a virtuoso, could not bear to look on and see this
deliberate mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a relief to me when
my companion tugged at my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow him as
he softly crept out of the room. It was not until we were within his own
quarters that he opened his lips, and then I saw by his agitated face
how deep was his consternation.

"The abominable Goth!" he cried. "Could you have believed it?"

"It is amazing."

"He is a villain or a lunatic--one or the other. We shall very soon see
which. Come with me, Jackson, and we shall get to the bottom of this
black business."

A door opened out of the passage which was the private entrance from his
rooms into the museum. This he opened softly with his key, having first
kicked off his shoes, an example which I followed. We crept together
through room after room, until the large hall lay before us, with that
dark figure still stooping and working at the central case. With an
advance as cautious as his own we closed in upon him, but softly as we
went we could not take him entirely unawares. We were still a dozen
yards from him when he looked round with a start, and uttering a husky
cry of terror, ran frantically down the museum.

"Simpson! Simpson!" roared Mortimer, and far away down the vista of
electric-lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the old soldier
suddenly appear. Professor Andreas saw him also, and stopped running,
with a gesture of despair. At the same instant we each laid a hand upon
his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, gentlemen," he panted, "I will come with you. To your room,
Mr. Ward Mortimer, if you please! I feel that I owe you an explanation."

My companion's indignation was so great that I could see that he dared
not trust himself to reply. We walked on each side of the old Professor,
the astonished commissionaire bringing up the rear. When we reached the
violated case, Mortimer stopped and examined the breast-plate. Already
one of the stones of the lower row had had its setting turned back in
the same manner as the others. My friend held it up and glanced
furiously at his prisoner.

"How could you!" he cried. "How could you!"

"It is horrible--horrible!" said the Professor. "I don't wonder at your
feelings. Take me to your room."

"But this shall not be left exposed!" cried Mortimer. He picked the
breast-plate up and carried it tenderly in his hand, while I walked
beside the Professor, like a policeman with a malefactor. We passed into
Mortimer's chambers, leaving the amazed old soldier to understand
matters as best he could. The Professor sat down in Mortimer's
arm-chair, and turned so ghastly a colour that, for the instant, all our
resentment was changed to concern. A stiff glass of brandy brought the
life back to him once more.

"There, I am better now!" said he. "These last few days have been too
much for me. I am convinced that I could not stand it any longer. It is
a nightmare--a horrible nightmare--that I should be arrested as a
burglar in what has been for so long my own museum. And yet I cannot
blame you. You could not have done otherwise. My hope always was that I
should get it all over before I was detected. This would have been my
last night's work."

"How did you get in?" asked Mortimer.

"By taking a very great liberty with your private door. But the object
justified it. The object justified everything. You will not be angry
when you know everything--at least, you will not be angry with me. I had
a key to your side door and also to the museum door. I did not give them
up when I left. And so you see it was not difficult for me to let myself
into the museum. I used to come in early before the crowd had cleared
from the street. Then I hid myself in the mummy-case, and took refuge
there whenever Simpson came round. I could always hear him coming. I
used to leave in the same way as I came."

"You ran a risk."

"I had to."

"But why? What on earth was your object--_you_ to do a thing like that!"
Mortimer pointed reproachfully at the plate which lay before him on the
table.

[Illustration: "MORTIMER POINTED REPROACHFULLY AT THE PLATE."]

"I could devise no other means. I thought and thought, but there was no
alternative except a hideous public scandal, and a private sorrow which
would have clouded our lives. I acted for the best, incredible as it may
seem to you, and I only ask your attention to enable me to prove it."

"I will hear what you have to say before I take any further steps," said
Mortimer, grimly.

"I am determined to hold back nothing, and to take you both completely
into my confidence. I will leave it to your own generosity how far you
will use the facts with which I supply you."

"We have the essential facts already."

"And yet you understand nothing. Let me go back to what passed a few
weeks ago, and I will make it all clear to you. Believe me that what I
say is the absolute and exact truth.

"You have met the person who calls himself Captain Wilson. I say 'calls
himself' because I have reason now to believe that it is not his correct
name. It would take me too long if I were to describe all the means by
which he obtained an introduction to me and ingratiated himself into my
friendship and the affection of my daughter. He brought letters from
foreign colleagues which compelled me to show him some attention. And
then, by his own attainments, which are considerable, he succeeded in
making himself a very welcome visitor at my rooms. When I learned that
my daughter's affections had been gained by him, I may have thought it
premature, but I certainly was not surprised, for he had a charm of
manner and of conversation which would have made him conspicuous in any
society.

"He was much interested in Oriental antiquities, and his knowledge of
the subject justified his interest. Often when he spent the evening with
us he would ask permission to go down into the museum and have an
opportunity of privately inspecting the various specimens. You can
imagine that I, as an enthusiast, was in sympathy with such a request,
and that I felt no surprise at the constancy of his visits. After his
actual engagement to Elise, there was hardly an evening which he did not
pass with us, an hour or two were generally devoted to the museum. He
had the free run of the place, and when I have been away for the evening
I had no objection to his doing whatever he wished here. This state of
things was only terminated by the fact of my resignation of my official
duties and my retirement to Norwood where I hoped to have the leisure to
write a considerable work which I had planned.

"It was immediately after this--within a week or so--that I first
realized the true nature and character of the man whom I had so
imprudently introduced into my family. The discovery came to me through
letters from my friends abroad, which showed me that his introductions
to me had been forgeries. Aghast at the revelation, I asked myself what
motive this man could originally have had in practising this elaborate
deception upon me. I was too poor a man for any fortune-hunter to have
marked me down. Why, then, had he come? I remembered that some of the
most precious gems in Europe had been under my charge, and I remembered
also the ingenious excuses by which this man had made himself familiar
with the cases in which they were kept. He was a rascal who was planning
some gigantic robbery. How could I, without striking my own daughter,
who was infatuated about him, prevent him from carrying out any plan
which he might have formed? My device was a clumsy one, and yet I could
think of nothing more effective. If I had written a letter under my own
name, you would naturally have turned to me for details which I did not
wish to give. I resorted to an anonymous letter begging you to be upon
your guard.

"I may tell you that my change from Belmore Street to Norwood had not
affected the visits of this man, who had, I believe, a real and
overpowering affection for my daughter. As to her, I could not have
believed that any woman could be so completely under the influence of a
man as she was. His stronger nature seemed to entirely dominate her. I
had not realized how far this was the case, or the extent of the
confidence which existed between them, until that very evening when his
true character for the first time was made clear to me. I had given
orders that when he called he should be shown into my study instead of
to the drawing-room. There I told him bluntly that I knew all about him,
that I had taken steps to defeat his designs, and that neither I nor my
daughter desired ever and to see him again. I added that I thanked God
that I had found him out before he had time to harm those precious
objects which had been the work of my life-time to protect.

"He was certainly a man of iron nerve. He took my remarks without a sign
either of surprise or of defiance, but listened gravely and attentively
until I had finished. Then he walked across the room without a word and
struck the bell.

"'Ask Miss Andreas to be so kind as to step this way,' said he to the
servant.

"My daughter entered, and the man closed the door behind her. Then he
took her hand in his.

"'Elise,' said he, 'your father has just discovered that I am a villain.
He knows now what you knew before.'

"She stood in silence, listening.

"'He says that we are to part for ever,' said he.

"She did not withdraw her hand.

"'Will you be true to me, or will you remove the last good influence
which is ever likely to come into my life?'

"'John,' she cried, passionately, 'I will never abandon you! Never,
never, not if the whole world were against you.'

"In vain I argued and pleaded with her. It was absolutely useless. Her
whole life was bound up in this man before me. My daughter, gentlemen,
is all that I have left to love, and it filled me with agony when I saw
how powerless I was to save her from her ruin. My helplessness seemed to
touch this man who was the cause of my trouble.

"'It may not be as bad as you think, sir,' said he, in his quiet,
inflexible way. 'I love Elise with a love which is strong enough to
rescue even one who has such a record as I have. It was but yesterday
that I promised her that never again in my whole life would I do a thing
of which she should be ashamed. I have made up my mind to it, and never
yet did I make up my mind to a thing which I did not do.'

"He spoke with an air which carried conviction with it. As he concluded
he put his hand into his pocket and he drew out a small cardboard box.

"'I am about to give you a proof of my determination,' said he. 'This,
Elise, shall be the first-fruits of your redeeming influence over me.
You are right, sir, in thinking that I had designs upon the jewels in
your possession. Such ventures have had a charm for me, which depended
as much upon the risk run as upon the value of the prize. Those famous
and antique stones of the Jewish priest were a challenge to my daring
and my ingenuity. I determined to get them.'

"'I guessed as much.'

"'There was only one thing that you did not guess.'

"'And what is that?'

[Illustration: "HE TILTED OUT THE CONTENTS."]

"'That I got them. They are in this box.'

"He opened the box, and tilted out the contents upon the corner of my
desk. My hair rose and my flesh grew cold as I looked. There were twelve
magnificent square stones engraved with mystical characters. There could
be no doubt that they were the jewels of the urim and thummim.

"'Good God!' I cried. 'How have you escaped discovery?'

"'By the substitution of twelve others, made especially to my order, in
which the originals are so carefully imitated that I defy the eye to
detect the difference.'

"'Then the present stones are false?' I cried.

"'They have been for some weeks.'

"We all stood in silence, my daughter white with emotion, but still
holding this man by the hand.

"'You see what I am capable of, Elise,' said he.

"'I see that you are capable of repentance and restitution,' she
answered.

"'Yes, thanks to your influence! I leave the stones in your hands, sir.
Do what you like about it. But remember that whatever you do against me,
is done against the future husband of your only daughter. You will hear
from me soon again, Elise. It is the last time that I will ever cause
pain to your tender heart,' and with these words he left both the room
and the house.

"My position was a dreadful one. Here I was with these precious relics
in my possession, and how could I return them without a scandal and an
exposure? I knew the depth of my daughter's nature too well to suppose
that I would ever be able to detach her from this man now that she had
entirely given him her heart. I was not even sure how far it was right
to detach her if she had such an ameliorating influence over him. How
could I expose him without injuring her--and how far was I justified in
exposing him when he had voluntarily put himself into my power? I
thought and thought, until at last I formed a resolution which may seem
to you to be a foolish one, and yet, if I had to do it again, I believe
it would be the best course open to me.

"My idea was to return the stones without anyone being the wiser. With
my keys I could get into the museum at any time, and I was confident
that I could avoid Simpson, whose hours and methods were familiar to me.
I determined to take no one into my confidence--not even my
daughter--whom I told that I was about to visit my brother in Scotland.
I wanted a free hand for a few nights, without inquiry as to my comings
and goings. To this end I took a room in Harding Street that very night,
with an intimation that I was a Pressman, and that I should keep very
late hours.

"That night I made my way into the museum, and I replaced four of the
stones. It was hard work, and took me all night. When Simpson came round
I always heard his footsteps, and concealed myself in the mummy-case. I
had some knowledge of gold-work, but was far less skilful than the thief
had been. He had replaced the setting so exactly that I defy anyone to
see the difference. My work was rude and clumsy. However, I hoped that
the plate might not be carefully examined, or the roughness of the
setting observed, until my task was done. Next night I replaced four
more stones. And to-night I should have finished my task had it not been
for the unfortunate circumstance which has caused me to reveal so much
which I should have wished to keep concealed. I appeal to you,
gentlemen, to your sense of honour and of compassion, whether what I
have told you should go any farther or not. My own happiness, my
daughter's future, the hopes of this man's regeneration, all depend upon
your decision."

"Which is," said my friend, "that all is well that ends well, and that
the whole matter ends here and at once. To-morrow the loose settings
shall be tightened by an expert goldsmith, and so passes the greatest
danger to which, since the destruction of the Temple, the urim and
thummim have been exposed. Here is my hand, Professor Andreas, and I can
only hope that under such difficult circumstances I should have carried
myself as unselfishly and as well."

Just one footnote to this narrative. Within a month Elise Andreas was
married to a man whose name, had I the indiscretion to mention it, would
appeal to my readers as one who is now widely and deservedly honoured.
But if the truth were known, that honour is due not to him but to the
gentle girl who plucked him back when he had gone so far down that dark
road along which few return.



[Illustration: _From a_] THE NEEDLE LYING AS IT FELL AT ALEXANDRIA.
[_Photo._]

_The Story of Cleopatra's Needle._

FROM SYRENE TO LONDON.

By Susie Esplen.


In London, on the embankment of the Thames, standing majestic in its
great height and solidity, is that wonderful column of red granite known
to all as Cleopatra's Needle. What a history is attached to the obelisk,
a history which is as wonderful and strange as the Needle itself is
antique, for its age dates back as far as 1,500 years before the
Christian Era. We are told that "the child Moses may have played around
the foot of this pillar; the Israelites looking citywards from the
brickfields saw the sunlight glittering on its tapering point; the
plague of darkness clothed it as with a garment; the plague of frogs
croaked and squatted on its pediment; the plague of locusts dashed
themselves in flights against it, and unto its likeness the heart of
Pharaoh was hardened. The sight of it takes us back to a time when the
Pisgah--sight of Canaan--was but a promise with a desert and forty years
between." Connecting the history of the pillar with such ancient
Biblical facts as these, we realize how really aged the Needle is; but
we have still to remember that it had been witness to events which took
place many hundreds of years even before the days of Moses.

When Thothmes III., called Egypt's greatest King, was in power he gave
command for another pair of obelisks to be cut out of the quarries at
Syrene and erected by the side of those already standing, which Rameses
had set up before one of the many temples of the Sun which were in
Heliopolis.

Gazing thoughtlessly at the column one is prone to overlook the fact
that this tremendous pillar is unlike other equally high columns in our
land, as this one was not built up to its present height by stone being
laid upon stone or block being placed upon block, until the desired
height and form were attained, but from the first this was hewn out of
its place in the quarry in one enormous mass. We can, therefore,
understand the difficult undertaking it would be to remove such a weight
of granite from one place to the other in the days when steam was not in
use. The quarries of Syrene were seven hundred miles from Heliopolis. In
an interesting book on this subject written by the Rev. James King (and
to him I am indebted for much of this information), we have an account
of how in those early times the task of cutting out and removing this
column was effected.

He tells us that in an old quarry at Syrene there is to be seen an
obelisk upon which the workmen were busy, when for some reason they were
obliged to leave it only partially cut out. From this it appears that
when the quarrymen wished to abstract a huge mass, such as the Needle
would be, they marked out the form by cutting a deep groove, in which,
at intervals, they made oblong holes. Into these holes they firmly
wedged blocks of timber, and then, filling the grooves with water, the
wood in time swelled and thus the granite cracked along the outline from
wedge to wedge. Next came the difficulty of taking the Needle on its
first journey, seven hundred miles up the river to the City of
Heliopolis. When it lay ready for removal in the quarry, rollers made of
palm trees were laid so that the column could be placed on them, and by
this means it could be pushed down to the edge of the river, and there a
raft was built round it. When the Nile overflowed its banks, this raft
and its burden floated, and the stone was conveyed to the nearest and
most suitable point from which it could again be conveyed on rollers as
before to the pedestal which was prepared for it to stand upon, and by
the help of ropes and levers made from the date palm it was placed in
position. So faultless was the work done by those men of old that, when
the column was erected on the pedestal, both had been so accurately
levelled, where the one fitted on the other, that the Needle when
standing was perfectly true in the perpendicular.

Mr. King continues to inform us that in a grotto at El-Bershch is a
representation showing the removal of a gigantic figure. The statue is
placed on a sledge, and men are represented going before it pouring oil
in grooves, along which the sledge slides, and by means of ropes four
rows of men drag the figure along. And from this we learn the method of
the column's first removal. Once erected in Heliopolis before one of the
many temples of the Sun, the Needle was allowed to remain there with its
companion one for fourteen centuries.

Twenty-three years before Christ, Augustus Cæsar ordered the removal of
them from Heliopolis to Alexandria, and so the Needle came to be taken
on its second journey. In Alexandria was a gorgeous palace of the
Cæsars, and before the palace the columns were set up. They are called
Cleopatra's Needles, but in reality Cleopatra had no connection with
their history. She may have helped to design the magnificent building
the front of which these obelisks adorned, and her devoted subjects
wishing to give honour to the memory of their much-loved Queen gave the
pillars her name.

For fifteen centuries they were left to stand in this last-named
position, which was close to the Port of Alexandria; and many years
after the grand building of the Cæsars had fallen in ruins, these two
columns still stood. With years the sea had advanced to the base of the
one in which we are more especially interested, and with the
ever-advancing and receding waters the foundation of the Needle became
so worn that three hundred years ago it fell to the ground unbroken and
unharmed.

[Illustration: _From a_] PRISING UP THE NEEDLE, IN ORDER TO BUILD THE
FRAMEWORK UNDER IT. [_Photo._]

In 1801 the French and English fought, and the latter, under Sir Ralph
Abercrombie, were victorious. The battle having taken place within
sight of the Needle, the English soldiers conceived the desire to
possess and take to England the fallen obelisk as a trophy of their
success. So anxious were they to have this idea carried out, that they
willingly gave up some of their payment, and collected £7,000 towards
the expense of its removal.

[Illustration: _From a_] BEGINNING THE FRAMEWORK. [_Photo._]

The plan they adopted for its conveyance to England on this occasion was
to build a pier seaward, and then, taking the Needle to the end of it,
proposed putting it through the stern of an old French frigate which had
been raised for the purpose. When the pier was partially built a great
storm washed it away, and very soon after that the soldiers were ordered
to leave Egypt, and the idea could not be carried out. However, the
Needle was removed a few feet, and a brass tablet was inserted bearing a
record of the British victory. From this time the mind of the people
appeared to be in a state of unrest concerning the Needle--an unrest
which was not quieted until the column was brought to England and
erected where it now stands.

When George IV. was reigning in England, Mehemet Ali was ruling in
Egypt, and he offered as a gift to the King this obelisk. George IV. for
some reason did not accept the gift. When William IV. came to the throne
it was again offered, with an additional favour, for he also promised to
pay the cost for its transportation. King William, like his predecessor,
King George, thought it best to excuse himself from accepting the
obelisk, so he also refused it.

[Illustration: _From a_] PUTTING ON THE CASING. [_Photo._]

In 1849 the question was brought before the House of Commons, that the
offer made by Mehemet Ali should be re-considered and the obelisk
brought to England, but an opposition party opposed the suggestion,
considering that the Needle would have become so defaced as to be not
worth the risk and expense of removing it.

[Illustration: _From a_] COMPLETING THE CASING. [_Photo._]

Many years after, when the great Hyde Park Demonstration was being held,
it was again suggested that the obelisk should be transported, in honour
of the Prince Consort, for his anxiety in trying to make the exhibition
a success, but the idea again fell through. When the Sydenham Palace
Company were planning their great pavilion they wished to have the
Needle to place in the Egyptian department of the building, of course
intending to pay for its transit. But it was against order to give a
private company any gift which really belonged to the nation.

[Illustration: _From a_] THE CASING FINISHED. [_Photo._]

The Needle all these years was still lying where the British Army left
it, on the shore of the Bay of Alexandria. The ground on which it lay
was sold, and a Greek merchant who had bought the land was anxious to
have the column taken away. The Khedive advised the English to remove it
if they really valued its possession, otherwise they ran the risk of
losing it altogether. In 1867 Sir James E. Alexander was attracted by
the beauty of the column which was also presented by Mehemet Ali to the
French, and stands now in La Place de la Concorde. Remembering that the
one belonging to the English was lying unheeded on the shores of
Alexandria, he desired to have it brought over to England, and
accordingly went to Egypt, gained an interview with the Khedive, and
with him discussed its possession and removal. For ten years he was
unwearying in his watch over the monument, arranging from time to time
with the owner of the land to allow it to remain where it was, hoping
meanwhile to be able to make some arrangements concerning it so that it
might be preserved for the English.

[Illustration: _From a_] PREPARING TO LAUNCH. [_Photo._]

He came to the opinion that if ever the obelisk was to be brought to
England it would not be at the expense of the nation's purse, but would
need to be paid for by private donations. With one or two friends,
anxious like himself for the protection of the Needle, he intended to
try and raise funds in the City. However, first meeting his friend,
Professor Erasmus Wilson, and explaining all to him, the Professor
generously offered to pay the sum of £10,000, which was deemed
sufficient for the purpose.

In July of 1877 workmen were once more busy in connection with this
column which already had experienced such a history. The sand was
removed from about it, and to the delight of those most interested it
was found to be in an excellent state of preservation. Next came the
anxious task of removing it, something more being necessary than the
raft, as of old, for the long sea voyage which lay before it.

[Illustration: _From a_] THE FIRST ATTEMPT AT LAUNCHING. [_Photo._]

A paper might be written on the different methods and numerous plans
invented and suggested for the transportation of the Needle. Sir James
Alexander had made the acquaintance of Mr. John Dixon, a civil engineer,
and he, too, was interested in the monolith. Professor Erasmus Wilson
and Mr. Dixon were introduced and discussed the subject together, with
the result that Mr. Dixon undertook the responsibility of the conveyance
of the column to England, Professor Wilson arranging to pay the £10,000
on its erection in London. A construction was therefore carefully
designed in England for encasing the Needle, so that it would be a sea
craft of itself, and this was sent out to Egypt in pieces.

[Illustration: _From a_] THE TUGS IN ACTION. [_Photo._]

One of the principal considerations when making their designs was that
the Needle when encased required to be launched by being rolled into the
water, instead of being sent off in the usual way. Another of the chief
difficulties to contend with in the removal of the obelisk was that the
bay near which it was lying was unsafe for ships to anchor in, as it was
exposed to severe gales and the ground was covered with shoals. The
Needle was raised some feet above the ground, the smaller end swung
round to be parallel with the sea, and when in this position the work of
encasing it was done.

When in this act of turning it, the ground appeared to be giving way
under it, and, on examination being made, it was found to be resting on
a small vault, which was 6ft. long by 3ft. wide and 4ft. high. It was
evidently an ancient tomb, for two human skeletons and some small jars
were found in the cavity. The skulls were preserved and put on board the
pontoon, when ready for sea, but after the storm in the bay they were
never seen again, and the sailors, being foreign, are supposed to have
thrown them overboard, through superstition.

The Needle whilst raised and ready for encasing had the plates riveted
in place round it, the inside was packed with elastic timber cushions to
preserve the stone when being rolled into the water, or in case of any
deflection in the vessel's length, which might occur through the waves.
The casing was made water-tight, and the greatest care had to be taken
to have the column quite in the centre of the cylinder, where it was
fastened in position.

[Illustration: _From a_] AT THE BRINK. [_Photo._]

For the purpose of getting it into the water, large wooden wheels,
16-1/2ft. in diameter, were put on either end, and planks were laid for
it to roll down. From heavy lighters lying in the bay, wire ropes were
taken and wrapped many times round the cylinder. Also from the land side
ropes were secured to it, in case, when set in motion, it went off at
too great a speed, and thus the ropes could check that fault. On August
28th, 1877, all was ready for the launch. Unfortunately, the morning
commenced with a thick fog, which only cleared away as the day wore on.

[Illustration: _From a_] REPAIRING THE HOLE MADE BY THE ROCK. [_Photo._]

A great crowd of people gathered to witness the interesting event. All
being in readiness, the winches on board the lighters worked the ropes
connected with the encased Needle, and it commenced to gradually move
towards the water, but the movement was so slow that it could scarcely
be detected. After some hours it had only made one complete turn on its
wheels. It was then proved that the vessels from which the wire ropes
were worked were not able to hold their ground against the strain, but
were dragging their anchors. Two tugs which had been standing by in
readiness to give help if required were called into service, and being
connected with the cylinder towed it until she moved a little farther
into the water, but although the tugs steamed at full power they could
not move the heavy weight at any great speed. The planking ended by an
incline into the water, and divers had been previously employed in
removing shoals from the intended course to prevent any mishap. When the
cylinder was brought to the edge of the railway, so to call it, the idea
was that it would roll down the incline and slip off easily into the
water.

[Illustration: _From a_] LAUNCHED. [_Photo._]

[Illustration: _From a_] PUTTING ON THE TOP-FITTINGS IN DOCK. [_Photo._]

All the first day was employed in bringing it to the foot of the
incline, and at night it was left in no greater depth of water than 3ft.
Next morning the tugs again were at work trying to move it into deep
water, but after making one full revolution it stuck, and although the
tugs continued to tow all day it remained immovable.

[Illustration: _From a_] FAREWELL TO ALEXANDRIA. [_Photo._]

On the third day divers discovered that a hidden stone weighing half a
ton had pierced the plates, and making a hole had allowed the water to
rush in and fill the cylinder. It took some days to repair the damage
made by the rock, but after that was done it was successfully floated
and towed round to the harbour, where final arrangements were made for
the sea voyage. A cabin house and rail were fixed on top, two bilge
keels 40ft. long were riveted one on either side, a mast and rudder
placed, and twenty tons of iron ballast were put in her. It was manned
by a crew of five Maltese and an English captain. The time occupied
from beginning to encase it until the completion was about three and a
half months.

A suitable steamer of sufficient size and power was found in the ss.
_Olga_, belonging to Messrs. Wm. Johnson and Co., of Liverpool. The
craft, which was named the _Cleopatra_, was now ready for sea. It was
designed not to travel faster than five or six knots an hour, as greater
speed might be disastrous. The _Olga_, towing the _Cleopatra_, set sail
from Alexandria on the 21st September, 1877.

For the first twenty days all was prosperous and uneventful, but on the
morning of Sunday, the 14th October, when in the Bay of Biscay, a squall
arose, which towards noon developed into a gale. The _Cleopatra_,
however, stood the gale well, not shipping enough water to do any
serious harm until about six o'clock on the evening of the same day,
when a big sea caught her, turning her completely on her beam ends and
carrying away her mast.

[Illustration: ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT.

_From a Photo. kindly lent by C. H. Mabey, Esq., Sculptor of Sphinxes
and Pedestal._]

A desperate effort was made to right her, but without success; a small
boat was lowered, but to no purpose, and the captain of the _Olga_ at
this point, seeing the danger all were in, thought it wisest to
disconnect the two vessels, and so the cylinder was cut adrift. A little
later, the wind having fallen, the _Cleopatra_ signalled for assistance,
and the crew of the _Olga_, pitying the distress of their
fellow-sailors, volunteered to put off in a boat and go to their rescue.
The captain, thinking it would be a fruitless effort, advised them
against it, saying: "A boat could not live in such a sea." The second
officer, who had all along taken a keen interest in the welfare of the
_Cleopatra_, replied: "We can't leave the poor fellows to drown; and
now, lads, who will go with me?" He found five fine able-bodied men, in
the prime of life, were willing to share the risk, and a boat was
launched and put off; but before they could render any assistance a
great wave washed them away, and they were thus drowned in endeavouring
to save others.

After a time a line was thrown from the _Olga_ over the _Cleopatra_, and
by means of it a boat was hauled from the one vessel to the other, and
the sailors on the Needle were saved. After spending some hours in
searching for signs of the lost boat and the _Cleopatra_, the captain of
the _Olga_ set sail for Falmouth, with the sad news of the enforced
abandonment in the Bay and the supposed loss of the Needle and men.

When the news was heard in England, Mr. Dixon was of opinion that the
Needle would not sink when cast off, but would float, the only danger
being that she might be destroyed on rocks. His surmising was correct in
reference to it floating, for a telegram was received sixty days after
the news of its loss saying that the ss. _Fitzmaurice_, bound for
Valencia from Middlesbrough, had found and captured it ninety miles
north of Ferrol, and had towed it into Vigo in Spain, and it remained in
that harbour about three months.

Sir James Ashbury, M.P., kindly offered the loan of his yacht, the
_Eothen_, to tow it home, but arrangements were finally made for the
_Anglia_ to do the work, and she arrived in England with the obelisk in
tow on the 20th January, 1878.



_Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer._

By Mark Eastwood.


The Prince threw the reins to his servant and sprang from the sledge.

"Where is he?" demanded he.

The Muzhik in the doorway of the hut stood bowing to the ground. He did
not presume to lift his eyes to the High Noble, but they had flashed up
like signal-fires at the words. Yet he affected not to understand.

[Illustration: "IVANKA, MY LITTLE ONE, SLEW THE WOLF."]

"Is it the old man, Ivan Ivanovitch, the High Noble would honour with
his commands?" he began. "His servant is full of regret----"

"Bother Ivan Ivanovitch!" interrupted the Prince, impatiently. "What do
I want with your father? It is Ivanka, your son, I come to see--the
little one who slew the wolf. At least," he added quickly, with a shrug,
"so they say, but I do not believe it. Why, it is impossible! A child--a
mere puppy!"

The Muzhik had thrown out his hands. He could contain himself no longer.
"The High Noble does not believe?" he cried, wildly. Then he rushed into
the house to return in a moment brandishing in one hand a knife, and in
the other holding aloft a shaggy hide.

"The Noble Prince does not believe?" he repeated, and his eyes seemed to
emit sparks. "Let him behold the proofs. Ivanka, my little one, slew the
wolf, in very truth! Alone--alone he slew it!"

As though a flash of electric fire had flown from the man's lips direct
to the hearts of his listeners, the faces of both flamed up. The man in
the sledge lifted his cap and crossed himself with fervent mutterings.
He passed the cuff of his coat across his wet, shining eyes.

The Prince took the knife in his hand. Such a thing it was! You can buy
the like for twenty copeks (about sixpence) at any Russian fair. One of
the sort used by the Russian peasant to cut forage, having a crooked
blade and horn handle. It was stained, both blade and hilt, with blood.

"I have bought another for use," observed the peasant.

"It is wonderful," murmured the Prince, as he turned the knife about in
his hands.

At this juncture a pair of excited black eyes, surmounted by a huge
_baranka_, peered round the corner of the hut, and as quickly vanished.

Presently the Prince looked up. "But the boy!" he cried. "Let us see
this wonderful child and hear the story from his own lips."

The peasant looked sharply round.

"He was here even when the High Noble drew up. There is the hatchet and
the wood he was chopping. Ivanka! Ivanka! He has hidden himself, the
rascal."

The Prince laughed.

"Ivanka Ivanka!" almost shrieked the peasant. "I will teach you to run
and hide when the High Nobility come from far and near to see you! By
all the saints, if you do not instantly come forth from your hiding-hole
and relate the whole occurrence to the Noble Prince, I will break every
bone in your body!"

Then it was that a coat of sheep's skin that just cleared the ground
emerged from behind the hut and moved slowly over the trodden snow to
within a few paces of the Prince. You could only tell by the shining
eyes and the tip of a small red nose that peeped between the high
stand-up collar that inside of it was a small boy.

Where he stood the blood-red sun bathed him in heroic glory. Yet, in
spite of all, Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer had the mien of a fruit-stealing
culprit before the _Chinovnik_. The Prince regarded him with mock
severity.

"What is this I hear of you, Ivanka?" he began. "They say that you have
slain a wolf!"

Ivanka would have hung his head but that his collar prevented it. So he
dropped his eyes in guilty silence. The peasant, behind the Prince's
back, rubbed his hands and chuckled.

"Come here," commanded the Prince, his moustached lip twitching with a
whimsical smile.

The coat moved to the Prince's feet. Then the small boy inside it felt
himself caught up in strong arms and borne into the hut.

Now, though it was a ruddy winter sunset outside, in the hut it was
quite gloomy. The window was very small. A dull yellow glow, like a big
bull's-eye, came from the open door of the stove, and a glimmer like a
glow-worm from the tiny lamp that burned before the Holy Image. The dim
outline of a woman with a child in her arms could be discerned by the
stove. She came forward as the Prince entered, and bending low raised
the hem of his fur mantle to her lips and silently returned to her seat.

The Prince sat by the window, and Ivanka stood between his knees where
he had been placed. He trembled inside his sheep's skin. Yet it was a
gentle hand that lifted the _baranka_ from his curly head and raised his
chin.

"How old are you, Ivanka?" inquired the Prince.

"Ten years, Noble Prince," faltered the boy. But his eyes meeting those
of the Prince at that moment he ceased to tremble. And the longer he
looked the more comfortable he felt.

"And you have slain a wolf?" continued the Prince.

"Yes, Noble Prince."

"And what had the wolf done to you, Ivanka, that you should have taken
his life?"

"He had seized our little Minka and would have eaten her up." Ivanka
drew a sharp breath.

"How terrible!" exclaimed the Prince. "But you--midge! How did you dare
to tackle such a foe? It is incredible! Come, tell me all about it.
Begin at the beginning, Ivanka."

Ivanka gazed at the ground in silence. He twisted one leg round the
other, cracked all his knuckles in succession, but the words would not
come.

"Speak, Ivanka, do," came a woman's coaxing voice from the gloom. "Tell
his High Nobility how it happened."

Another pause, and at length in a shy, hesitating voice, Ivanka began:--

"Mother had gone to the town in the sledge, and father lay asleep on the
top of the stove. It was afternoon. I was minding Minka, and we played
at having a shop with the bits of pot from the mug Minka broke. Then I
remembered it was time to cut the fodder and feed the beasts, which I
can do as well as father now. So I took the fodder knife and stole out.
I left the door open a bit--not enough to let the cold in on father, but
enough to hear Minka if she cried. I had fed the cows in the byre and
had got to the corner of the house coming back, when I heard Minka
scream."

As Ivanka uttered the last word his breath came fast. He tossed back his
locks with a sudden jerk of the head. Like a gladiator preparing for
combat, he threw out his chest, setting his teeth, whilst his small,
muscular fingers contracted, doubling in like the claws of a falcon.
Forgotten was the princely presence with that piteous appeal smiting his
ears.

[Illustration: "I SPRANG FORWARD."]

"I sprang forward," he continued, "and saw Minka. She was on the ground
just outside the door. And over her hung a monster, grim and terrible.
His wicked eyes gleamed red, and his cruel teeth were long and sharp. I
saw them as he lifted his bristling lip to seize her in his jowl."

A dry sob rose in Ivanka's throat and made him pause. He coughed it
impatiently away.

"It seemed to me then--just for a moment of horror--as though my limbs
were bound and I could not move, until the beast began to drag Minka
away. At the sight strength came to me, and with a yell I threw myself
upon him."

"You were not afraid?" put in the Prince, who had never taken his eyes
off the boy since he began to speak.

"I did not think of fear," replied Ivanka, "I thought of my poor little
Minka, and oh, how fiercely I hated the monster. Hate kills fear," he
added, reflectively.

"And then?" inquired the Prince.

"Oh, then he dropped Minka, and over and over we rolled in the snow, he
snarling and worrying my sheep's skin. He would soon have made an end of
me but for my sheep's skin." And the boy patted his breast and looked
himself over complacently.

"And after?" the Prince again recalled him.

"After that he shook me until my bones rattled in my skin. Then I was
under him and my mouth was full of his hair, and I was so spent that I
would have let him finish me. But Minka cried, 'Ivanka! Ivanka!' and it
seemed too hard to leave her. It was that moment I remembered that I
still grasped the knife.

"How I struggled round between his mighty paws until my arm was free to
plunge the weapon in his throat I know not, but I felt the blood gush
out over my face. And then--and then, Minka's voice went farther and
farther away and I seemed to be falling as a star falls through the
air."

As Ivanka ceased speaking, a half-stifled sob was heard from the
interior of the room. The Prince had covered his eyes with his hand as
though dazzled. Yet the sun had gone down and the place was more gloomy
than ever. The peasant stepped forward out of the shadows and stood
before the Prince in the dim light of the window. He took up the tale.

[Illustration: "I STRUGGLED ROUND UNTIL MY ARM WAS FREE."]

"It was the screams of the little one that awoke me, your High Nobility,
and I ran out. Ah, never shall I forget the sight that met my eyes!
There lay my little son, dabbled in blood, and beside him the wolf on
its back, kicking in death convulsions. When I picked up my Ivanka I
thought him dead, and my heart would have broken had he not at once
opened his eyes.

"'Minka,' he whispered, 'is she hurt?'

"'My darling, no,' I answered. 'She screams too lustily to be hurt.'

"'And the wolf?' He raised his head from my shoulder and looked wildly
around.

"'He is dead. You have slain him, my hero,' I assured him.

"Then he shut his eyes with a great sigh.

"'Let me sleep, father,' he murmured. 'I am so tired.'"

The peasant chuckled. "He was played out, my little wolf-slayer. The
Noble Prince should have seen how he lay like a sack, and slept and
slept!"

Meanwhile Ivanka had grown shy again and gazed wistfully towards the
door. But the Prince still held him between his knees. Even when he rose
to go, the High Noble detained the boy with a hand on his head.

"Give him to me," he said to the peasant. "Let me take him with me when
I go to Petersburg. I will make a great man of him. He shall be a
soldier and fight for the Czar."

There was dead silence. The peasant's face had gone crimson. His eyes
flew to his son and held him in jealous regard.

"Will you go with me, Ivanka, you wolf-slayer, to help keep the human
wolves from invading the dominions of the Czar? You shall be taught with
the sons of the highest in the land, and shall wear the uniform of an
Imperial cadet."

Ivanka raised solemn eyes to the face that was bent towards him. It was
a noble face, handsome and benign, and imposing against the swelling
sable of the high collar.

"He is great and good and beautiful, like my patron saint, Ivan," he
thought. Something stirred in the gloom of the hut, and quickly Ivanka
turned to where his mother sat with the sleeping Minka in her lap. His
lip began to quiver.

The peasant found his tongue. "Give him time, Noble Prince," he
faltered, huskily, and he too looked towards the crouching figure by the
stove. "It is a great thing the High Noble offers, but the boy is very
young."

"Take your time," replied the Prince. "In the spring I shall return.
Then, since you are sensible people, he will be ready to go."

[Illustration: "THE GREAT MAN PRESSED A ROLL OF NOTES INTO HIS HAND."]

With these words the great man stooped and kissed Ivanka, pressing a
roll of notes into his hand. From the door Ivanka watched the Prince
depart. He gazed after the fine sledge with its prancing horses as they
sped, swift as the wind, towards the wonderful, mysterious city of the
Great Czar. When it had disappeared and the merry jingle of the silver
bells no longer reached his ear it was to him as though a bright
noontide sun had suddenly dropped from the heavens. And there and then a
feeling of longing after greater things crept into his valiant little
heart.

"You shall decide for yourself, my son," said the peasant. And the
mother hid her grief because she wished Ivanka to be a great man.

Thus it was that when the spring came to stir the sap in the trees and
release the ice-bound brooks, at the return of the Prince, Ivanka was
ready to go.



_In Nature's Workshop._

II.--FALSE PRETENCES.

By Grant Allen.


Human life and especially human warfare are rich in deceptions, wiles,
and stratagems. We dig pitfalls for wild beasts, carefully concealed by
grass and branches; we take in the unsuspecting fish with artificial
flies, or catch them with worms which conceal a hook treacherously
barbed for their surer destruction. The savage paints his face and
sticks feathers in his hair so that he may look more terrifying to his
expected enemy; civilized men mask their batteries, and sometimes even
paint muzzles of imaginary guns in the spaces between the gaping mouths
of the real ones. _Chevaux de frise_ block the way to points liable to
attack; real troops lie in ambush and dart out unexpectedly in the rear
of the assailants. Trade in like manner is full of shams--a fact which I
need hardly impress by means of special examples. But Nature we are
usually accustomed to consider as innocent and truthful. Alas, too
trustfully: for Nature too is a gay deceiver. There is hardly a device
invented by man which she has not anticipated: hardly a trick or ruse in
his stock of wiles which she did not find out for herself long before he
showed her.

I propose in this paper to examine a few cases of such natural
deceptions--not indeed the most striking or typical, but such as occur
among fairly well-known English plants and animals. And I shall begin
with our familiar and unsavoury old friend, the Devil's Coach-horse.

[Illustration: 1.--A BATTLE ROYAL: SCORPION V. SPIDER: THE SCORPION
STRIKING.]

In order fully to understand his mode of procedure, however, I must
first call your attention to another animal which really _is_ what the
Devil's Coach-horse mendaciously pretends to be: and that is the common
scorpion. His mode of fighting is well known to most of us. In
illustration No. 1 Mr. Enock has given us a delineation of a frantic
death-struggle between such a scorpion and a large and powerful southern
spider. The venomous creature with the stinging tail is on the left; the
spider is on the right. As far as mere size goes, the antagonists are
fairly well matched: but the scorpion is the best armed, both with
offensive and defensive armour. His lobster-like or crab-like claws
enable him to hold his enemy's limbs in his grip as in a vice: then, at
the critical moment, he bends over his tail, in the extremity of which
his sting is situated, and plunges it with force through the
comparatively slight skin of the spider's body or thorax, injecting at
the same moment a pungent drop of his deadly poison. This characteristic
action of the scorpion in curving its tail over its body and raising its
sting in a menacing attitude is well known to birds and other enemies
of the species: often the mere threat of a thrust is a sufficient
deterrent: the dangerous beast just elevates its poisonous appendage or
assumes an angry mien, and the inquisitive intruder is frightened away
immediately. It is the same with ourselves. The bare sight of that
uplifted sting suffices to repel us. Even a child who saw a scorpion
once arch its back and prepare to strike with its reversed tail would
instinctively understand that there was danger ahead, and would withdraw
its hand before the venomous creature had time to pounce upon it.

Owing to these unamiable personal traits of the scorpion race, it is not
popular among other animals. But to be feared is to be respected; and
scorpions for the most part are left severely alone, under the stones
where they love to lurk, by the various denizens of the districts they
inhabit. Now, it is a fact in nature as in human life that to be
successful is to have many imitators. Thus a number of harmless flies
dress up like wasps in black and yellow bands, and so escape the too
pressing attentions of insect-eating birds and other enemies. They have
no stings, to be sure, but they look so like the wasps, and flaunt about
so fearlessly in their borrowed uniform, that they are universally taken
for the insects they mimic; even the cautious entomologist himself
stares at them twice and makes quite sure of his specimen before he
ventures to lay hands on any such doubtful masquerader. I hope in a
future article to give some further account (with illustrations) of
these facts of _mimicry_, as it is called: for the present we will stick
close to our text, the Devil's Coach-horse. For this familiar English
beetle is an imitator of the scorpion, and obtains immunity from the
attack of enemies to a great extent by pretending to powers which are
not his in reality.

[Illustration: 2.--THE DEVIL'S COACH-HORSE IN HIS HOURS OF EASE.]

In No. 2 we have a portrait of the Coach-horse in his hours of ease,
seen from above, engaged in doing nothing in particular. He does not
_look_ like a flying insect, but he is. He has a long pair of wings
tucked away in folds under his horny wing-cases, and he can use them
with great effect, for he is one of our swiftest and strongest
fliers--the long-distance champion, I almost fancy, among the beetles of
England, unless indeed the tiger-beetle be pitted against him. But when
crawling on the ground, and attacked or menaced, he does not take to
flight or show the white feather: being a pugnacious and spirited little
beast, he bridles up at once, and endeavours incontinently to terrify
his assailant. In No. 2 you see him from above when he is merely engaged
in crawling along the ground, looking as mild as milk, and as gentle as
any sucking dove: you would hardly suppose he could show fight or raise
his hand--I mean his antennæ--to injure anyone. But in No. 3 he is
represented in his favourite act of attacking a caterpillar: for he is
really a very voracious and courageous carnivore. In the autumn, when
Devil's Coach-horses are usually most abundant, you can easily catch
them by putting a piece of meat or a dead frog under an empty
flower-pot, and then tilting the edge up with a stone, so that the
beetles can crawl in and get at the food thus temptingly laid out for
them.

[Illustration: 3.--THE DEVIL'S COACH-HORSE SAMPLING A CATERPILLAR.]

If you disturb the Coach-horse, however, while he is engaged in eating
his quiet meal, or even when he is walking at leisure along a country
road, he puts himself at once into his "terrifying" attitude, and
imitates the scorpion. No. 4 exhibits him in this military character,
cocking up his tail and pretending he can sting--which is only his brag:
he just does it to frighten you. But the attitude is so exactly like
that of the scorpion, that it almost always produces an immediate
effect: hardly anybody likes to molest a Devil's Coach-horse. If you put
down your hand to touch him, and he rears in response, ten to one you
will withdraw it in alarm at sight of him. In England these beetles
often enough find their way into larders or cellars, seeking whom or
what they may devour; and when the servants light upon them, they almost
invariably decline to touch them: there is a general opinion about that
the ugly and threatening black beasts are uncanny and poisonous, or else
why should they turn up their tails at you in such an insulting fashion?

[Illustration: 4.--THE DEVIL'S COACH-HORSE PRETENDS TO BE A SCORPION.]

"But," you may object, "there are no scorpions in England: how then can
the Devil's Coach-horse be benefited by imitating an animal which he has
never seen, and of whose very existence he has not been able to read in
pretty picture books?" Your objection has some force--though not so much
as you imagine. It is quite true that there are no scorpions in England;
but then, there are Devil's Coach-horses in many other countries, and
the habit of tail-cocking need not necessarily have been acquired in
these islands of Britain. That is not all, however: it suffices the
beetle if the tactics it adopts happen to frighten and repel its
enemies, no matter why. Now, in the first place, many of our migratory
birds go in winter to Southern Europe and Africa--especially the
insect-eaters, which can find no food in frozen weather. The hard-billed
seed-eaters and fruit-eaters remain with us, but the soft-billed kinds
retire to warmer climates, where food is plentiful. Of course, however,
it is just these insect-eating birds that the Devil's Coach-horse has
most to fear from. The birds must be quite familiar with the habits and
manners of scorpions in their southern homes; and they are not likely to
inquire closely whether the dangerous beast they know on the
Mediterranean has, or has not been scheduled in Britain. We all of us
dislike and distrust any insect that resembles a bee or wasp, and that
buzzes or hums in a hostile manner: we give all such creatures a wide
berth, wherever found, on the bare off-chance that they may turn out to
be venomous--be hornets or so forth. Just in the same way, a bird, when
it sees an unknown black beastie cock up its tail and assume a
threatening attitude, is not likely to inquire too curiously whether or
not it is really a scorpion: the bare suspicion of a sting is quite
enough to warn it off from interfering with any doubtful customer.
Moreover, in the second place, even those birds or men who have never
seen a scorpion at all are yet sure to be alarmed when an insect sticks
up its forked tail menacingly, and shows fight, instead of skulking or
flying away. As a general rule, if any animal makes signs of resistance,
we take it for granted he has adequate arms or weapons to resist with:
and so this mere dumb-show of being a sort of scorpion proves quite
sufficient to protect the Devil's Coach-horse from the majority of his
enemies.

I ought to add that while our beetle thus frightens larger enemies, he
is actively and offensively objectionable to small ones. The main use of
his tail, indeed, is for folding away his wings, much as the earwig
folds hers by aid of her pincers. But the Devil's Coach-horse makes it
serve a double purpose. For he has a couple of yellow scent-glands in
his tail, which secrete an unpleasant and acrid aromatic substance.
These scent-glands are protruded in No. 4: you can just see them at the
tip of the tail; and if the annoyance to which the beetle is subjected
seems to call for their intervention, a drop of the volatile body they
distil is set free, and is at once discharged in the face of the enemy.
Such a manoeuvre is in essence like that of the skunk: it is defence by
means of a nasty odour, and it occurs not only in the Coach-horse's
case, but also among a number of beetles and other insects.

The odd little creatures known as Bombardier Beetles are still quainter
in their habits: they carry the last-mentioned mode of defence to an
even greater pitch of perfection. For, like miniature artillery-men,
they actually fire off a regular volley of explosive gas in the faces of
their pursuers. The gas is secreted as a liquid; but it is very
volatile, and it vaporizes at once on contact with the air, so as to
form a small, white cloud of pungent smoke, resembling in its effects
nitric acid. Our native English species of Bombardier roams about in
large flocks or regiments: and when one member of a clan is disturbed,
all the other beetles of the company let off their artillery at once, so
that the scattered volley has something the appearance of platoon
firing. The chief enemy of the Bombardiers is a much larger and very
handsome carnivorous beetle known as Calosoma. When this insect tiger
hunts down a single Bombardier, and has almost caught him, the fugitive
waits till his pursuer is quite close, and then salutes him with a
discharge of fire-arms: the pungent gas gets into the Calosoma's eyes
and mouth and distracts him for a moment; and the Bombardier escapes in
the midst of the confusion thus caused, under cover of the cloud he
himself has exploded. That is the most highly evolved mode of defence of
which I know among the British insects.

There are few creatures, again, which one would so little suspect of any
attempt to bully and bluff others as the soft-bodied caterpillars. They
are as a rule so plump and squashy and defenceless: a mere peck from a
bird's beak is enough to kill them, for when once their tight, thin skin
is broken, were it but with a pin-prick, all the flabby contents burst
out at once in the messiest fashion. Yet even caterpillars, strange to
say, have their tricks of terrifying. They pretend to be dangerous
characters. I will set out with some of the simplest and least developed
cases, and then pass on to a more complex and wily class of deceivers.

To begin with, I must premise that two sets of caterpillars have two
different ways of evading the unpleasant notice of birds and other
insect-eaters. One way is that adopted by the common "woolly-bear," a
great hairy caterpillar, frequent in gardens, and covered from head to
tail with long needles or bristles. These prickly points make the
creature into a sort of insect hedgehog; birds refuse to touch him,
because the serried spikes, which to us are mere hairs, seem to them
perfect spines or thorns, sticking into their tongues and throats, or
clogging their gizzards. Protected caterpillars like the woolly-bears
live quite openly, exposed on the leaves and branches of their
food-plant; they are not afraid of being seen: nay, they rather court
observation than shun it, because they know nobody will attack them. The
porcupine has no need to run away like the rabbit. Similar tactics are
also adopted by many nasty-tasting caterpillars, in whose bodies natural
selection has developed bitter or unpleasant juices. These caterpillars
are rejected by birds and lizards--the great enemies of the race--and
therefore they find it worth while to clothe themselves in gaudy and
conspicuous red or yellow bands, so as to advertise all comers of their
inedible qualities. Whenever you see such brilliantly-attired grubs
(like those of the Magpie Moth, so common on gooseberry-bushes--a
striking creature tricked out in belts of black and orange), you may be
sure of two things: first, they live openly and undisguisedly on the
leaves of their food-plant, without any attempt at mean concealment; and
second, they are nasty to the taste, and therefore rejected as food by
insect-eating animals. Now and then a young and inexperienced bird may
eat one, to be sure; but it never tries twice, and the solitary martyr
is sacrificed for the good of the race. Their bright colours and gaudy
bands are just advertisements, as it were, of their inedible qualities.
For, of course, nasty taste would do a caterpillar no good if the bird
had always to sample it before rejecting it; the broken skin alone would
be enough to kill it. Hence almost all uneatable caterpillars have
acquired bright colours by natural selection--that is to say, by the
less bright being continuously devoured or killed; and birds on their
side have learned to know (after one trial, or, perhaps, even before it
by inherited instinct) that red or yellow bands and belts in
caterpillars are the outward and visible sign of uneatableness.

The second group or set of caterpillars is edible and tasty: it,
therefore, governs itself accordingly, and has recourse to the exactly
opposite tactics. Caterpillars of this class are smooth and naked: they
never have the brilliant "warning colours" of the nasty-tasted kinds:
and they show a marked absence of the beautiful metallic sheen, the
strange melting iridescent hues and spots which add beauty to the charms
of so many among the uneatable species. Such fat and smooth-skinned
edible caterpillars are, of course, very tempting juicy morsels to birds
and other insect-eating animals. Their motions, like those of all grubs,
are slow; and if they lived exposed on their food-plants, after the
fashion of the protected hairy and bitter kinds, they would all he eaten
up before they had time to turn into moths or butterflies. Here,
therefore, natural selection has produced the contrary result from that
which it produces among protected kinds. Caterpillars of this edible
type which showed themselves too openly and imprudently have got picked
off by birds, like sentries and pickets who make themselves too
conspicuous to the enemy's sharpshooters. Only the most prudent, modest,
and retiring grubs have survived to become moths or butterflies, and so
be the parents of future generations, to whom they hand on their own
peculiarities. In this way the edible caterpillars have acquired at last
a fixed hereditary instinct of lurking under leaves, or in dark spots,
and never showing themselves openly. The larvæ of the butterfly group as
a whole thus fall into two great classes (as far as regards habits
alone, I mean): the _protected_, which are either hairy or nasty, and
which flaunt themselves openly; and the _unprotected_, which lurk and
skulk, endeavouring to escape notice as sedulously as their rivals the
protected endeavour to attract it.

Nor is that all. It would clearly be useless for a bright red or yellow
caterpillar to hide under a green leaf, and then suppose by that simple
device he was going to escape observation. Birds are always looking out
for insects under leaves. The consequence is that skulking or lurking
caterpillars are soon found out by sharp-eyed and hungry enemies, unless
they closely resemble the foliage or stems upon which they lie. From
generation to generation, accordingly, the less imitative insects get
eaten, and the more imitative spared: so that nowadays, most unarmed
caterpillars are green like the leaves or grey like the stems, and are
even provided with markings of light and shade upon their skins which
mimic the distribution of light and shade among the ribs and veins of
the surrounding foliage. Such deceptive leaf-like caterpillars are
always very difficult to find: so that careless observers as a rule know
only those of the other type, the great hairy "woolly-bears" and the
brilliant red and yellow-banded bitter kinds; they never observe the
unobtrusive green and brown sorts, which harmonize so admirably with
their native tree in colour and markings.

[Illustration: 5.--CATERPILLAR OF THE BROAD-BORDERED BEE-HAWK TRYING TO
LOOK ALARMING.]

Many greenish caterpillars, however, when discovered and disturbed, fall
back on their second line of defence: they endeavour to frighten their
enemies by devices closely similar to those of the Devil's Coach-horse.
The caterpillar of the Broad-bordered Bee-hawk, for example, forms a
good instance of a very simple stage in the development of such
brazen-faced "terrifying" tactics. This warlike grub is shown in No. 5,
trying on its simple little attempt to make itself alarming. Though by
no means an uncanny-looking or appalling insect, it will rear itself up
on its haunches (so to speak) when attacked, raising the fore part of
its body erect with a sudden jerk, and holding its head high, as if it
meant to bite or sting, so as to give itself as formidable an aspect as
possible. The mild ruse succeeds, too; for birds will eye the harmless
creature askance when it attempts this evolution, putting their heads on
one side, and ruffling their crests in evident terror. The attitude is
all a simple piece of bluff, to be sure, but _it pays_; indeed, bluff
in warfare is often more than half the battle. If you put on a bold face
in a row, and seem able to take care of yourself, people are apt to
think you have a knife up your sleeve, and therefore to refrain from
unnecessarily annoying you.

The cunning caterpillar which finally develops into the Privet Hawk-moth
has a slightly more evolved mode of purely theatrical frightening. You
see him in No. 6, a full-fed specimen, just ready to turn at once into a
chrysalis. This grub feeds usually on the vivid leaves of the privet; he
is therefore protectively coloured a bright green, like that of the
foliage about him. "But why those great purple stripes on his sides?"
you will ask. "Surely they must make him an easy mark for birds?" Not at
all: please notice that they run obliquely. There is method in that
obliquity. When the caterpillar is smaller, he lurks unseen on the
under-side of the leaves, and this pattern of oblique purplish lines
exactly imitates the general effect of the shadows cast by the ribs--so
much so, that if you look for him on a privet-tree in spring, I doubt
whether you will find him till I point him out to you. Even when he
waxes fat and full fed, the purple stripes still aid him more or less by
breaking up the large green surface into smaller areas, as Professor
Poulton has well noticed. He harmonizes better so with the broken masses
of the leaves about him. Then again, when the time arrives for him to
turn into a chrysalis, he descends to the ground, which, under a
thickly-leaved privet bush, is most often brown. So, just as he is
coming of age and reaching the proper moment for migration, his back all
at once begins to turn brown, in order that he may be less observed as
he walks about on the stem; while by the time he is quite ready to take
to the earth he has grown brown all over, thus matching the soil in
which he has next to bury himself. You could hardly have a better
example of the sort of colour-change which often accompanies altered
habits of living.

[Illustration: 6.--FULL-GROWN CATERPILLAR OF THE PRIVET HAWK-MOTH,
SIMILARLY OCCUPIED.]

In the illustration, however, you see this really harmless and
undefended grub in the act of trying to pretend he is poisonous. He is
now mature, and the stripes on his sides stand out conspicuously as he
walks on the stem. A sparrow threatens him. He retorts by showing
fight--fallaciously and deceptively, for he has nothing to fight with.
He lifts his head with an aggressive air, and throws himself about from
side to side, as if he knew he could bite, and meant to do it. He also
lashes his tail in pretended anger--"I would have you to know, Sir Bird,
I am not to be trifled with!" The empty demonstration usually succeeds:
the sparrow gets alarmed and believes he means it. This policy is, in
essence, that commonly known as "spirited": it consists in trying to
frighten your enemy instead of fighting him.

The oddly-marked caterpillar of the Puss Moth carries the same plan of
campaign to a much more artistic pitch. This very quaint insect is
common on willows and poplars in England, and is on the whole
protectively coloured. Black at first, it looks like a mere speck or
spot on the leaf; as it grows, it becomes gradually greener, relieved
with broad purple patches on the back, which produce the effect of lines
and shadows. When quite full-grown, as seen in No. 7, the adult
caterpillar generally rests at ease on the twigs of the willow-tree. Our
illustration shows it in this final stage of its larval life, just
taking alarm and humping its back at the approach of some bird or other
enemy. If the alarm continues, it goes through a most curious series of
evolutions, admirably shown by Mr. Enock in No. 8. Here, the little
beast is altogether on the defensive: it withdraws its head into the
first ring of the body, and inflates the margin, which is bright red in
colour. Two black spots, which are not really eyes, but which look
absurdly eye-like, now give it a grotesque and terrifying appearance. In
fact, the inflated ring resembles a hideous grinning mask, and gives the
impression of a face with eyes, nose, and mouth, like that of some
uncanny creeping creature. But the apparent face is not a face at all:
it is artfully made up of lines and spots on the skin of the body. At
the same time that the caterpillar thus assumes its mask, it stands on
its eight hind legs as erect as it can, and whips out two pink bristles
or tentacles from the forked prongs at the end of its tail--you can see
them in the picture. It then bends forward the tail, and brandishes or
waves about these pink bristles over its false head, so as to present
altogether a most gruesome aspect. Indeed, even Mr. Enock's vigorous
sketch of the little brute in its tragic moments does not quite convey
the full effect of its acting in the absence of colour: for the bright
red margin and the swishing pink switches add not a little to the
telling smirk and black goggle-eyes of the mask-like face thus produced
_in terrorem_.

[Illustration: 7.--CATERPILLAR OF THE PUSS MOTH PREPARING FOR ACTION.]

That is not all, either. The Puss Moth caterpillar has a rapid trick of
facing about abruptly in the direction of the enemy as if it meant to
bite: and this trick is always most disconcerting. If ever so lightly
touched, it instantly assumes the terrifying attitude, and presents its
pretended face to the astonished aggressor. From a harmless caterpillar
it becomes all at once a raging bulldog. Touch it on the other side, and
it faces round like lightning in the opposite direction. Professor
Poulton tried the effect of its grimace on a marmoset, and found the
marmoset was afraid to touch the mysterious creature. We are not
marmosets, but I notice that most human beings recoil instinctively from
a Puss Moth caterpillar when it assumes its mask. Even if you _know_ it
is harmless, there is something very alarming in its rapid twists and
turns, and in the persistent way in which it grins and spits at you.

[Illustration: 8.--THE SAME CATERPILLAR TERRIFYING AN ENEMY.]

Really spits, too; for the insect has a gland in its head which ejects,
at need, an irritating fluid. If this fluid gets into your eyes, they
smart most unpleasantly. It contains formic acid, and is strong enough
to be exceedingly stinging and painful. The discharge repels lizards,
and probably also birds, who are among the chief enemies of this as of
other caterpillars.

The deadliest foe of the Puss Moth larva, however, is the ichneumon-fly,
a parasitic creature, which lays its eggs in living caterpillars, and
lets its grubs hatch out inside them, so as to devour the host from
within in the most ruthless fashion. There are many kinds of
ichneumon-fly, some of them very minute: the one which attacks the Puss
Moth in its larval stage is a comparatively big one. The fly lays its
eggs behind the caterpillar's head, where the victim is powerless to
dislodge them. In all probability the defensive attitude and the shower
of formic acid are chiefly of use against these parasitic foes: for when
an ichneumon-fly appears, the caterpillar assumes his "terrifying"
attitude the moment it touches him, and faces full round to the foe with
his false mask inflated. A very small quantity of the formic acid
Professor Poulton found sufficient to kill an ichneumon: and there can
be little doubt that this is its main object.

[Illustration: 9.--CATERPILLARS OF THE LOBSTER MOTH DEMONSTRATING IN
FORCE BEFORE THE HOSTILE BATTALIONS.]

The last of these "bluffing" caterpillars with which I shall deal here
is that of the Lobster Moth. In No. 9 you see a couple of these quaint
and unwieldy creatures "demonstrating" before an enemy, as if he were
the Sultan. The Lobster Moth in its larval stage frequents beech-trees,
and you will see in the illustration that the two represented are on a
twig of beech. When at rest, the caterpillar resembles a curled and
withered beech-leaf, and by this unconscious mimicry escapes detection.
But when discovered and roused to battle, oh, then he imitates the
action of the spider. He holds up his short front legs in a menacing
attitude, so as to suggest a pair of frightful gaping jaws: the four
long legs behind these he keeps wide apart and makes them quiver with
rage in the most alarming pantomimic indignation. His tail he turns
topsy-turvy over his head like a scorpion; while the forked appendages
at its end seem like frightful stings, with which he is just about to
inflict condign punishment on whoever has dared to disturb his quiet.
But it is all mere brag, though the whole effect is extremely
terrifying. The performance does not, indeed, mimic any particular
venomous beast, but it suggests most appalling and paralyzing
possibilities. Many of these queer attitudes, indeed, owe their
impressiveness just to their grotesque simulation of one knows not quite
what: they are not definite and special, they are worse than that; they
appeal to the imagination. And if only you reflect how afraid we often
feel of the most harmless insects, merely because they _look_ frightful,
you will readily understand that such vague appeals to the imagination
may be far more effectual than any real sting could ever be. We dread
the unknown even more than the painful.

The funniest of all these false pretences, however, is one which Hermann
Müller, I believe, was the first to point out in this same Lobster Moth
caterpillar. When very much bothered by ichneumon-flies (to whose
attacks it is particularly exposed), this bristling beast displays, for
the first time, two black patches on its side, till then concealed by a
triangular flap. Now, these patches closely resemble the sort of wound
made by the ichneumon when it deposits its eggs, so it is probable that
they serve to take in the assailant, who is thus led to think that
another fly of her own kind has been before her, and, therefore, that it
is no use laying her eggs where a previous parasite is already in
possession. There would not be enough Lobster Moth to feed _two_ hungry
ichneumon families. In fact, the caterpillar first begins by bluffing,
and says, "If you touch me, I bite!" then, finding the bluff
unsuccessful, it further pretends to throw up the sponge, and cries out
with a bounce: "Oh, if egg-laying is your game, _that's_ no good: I'm
already occupied!" For a combination of wiles, this crafty double game
probably "licks creation."

If the defenders are so cunning, however, the attackers can sometimes
turn the tables upon them. Animals that hunt often disguise themselves,
in order to avoid the notice of the prey, and so steal unobserved upon
their victims. Such tactics are like those of the Kaffirs, who cut bits
of bush, and then creep up slowly, slowly behind them, under cover of
the branches, upon the gnus or antelopes which they wish to slaughter.
In No. 10 we have one example of this method of hunting or stalking, as
pursued by the intelligent English grass-spider. All spiders, of course,
have eight legs, four on each side; but in most of the class, the
various pairs of legs are evenly distributed, so as to lie about the
body in a rough circle or something like it. The grass-spider, however,
has his own views on this important matter. His form and attitude are
quite peculiar. He lies in wait for his prey on the open, crouched
against a stem of grass, with his two front pairs of legs extended
before him, and his back pair behind, in an arrangement which is rather
linear than circular. This position makes him almost invisible--much
more invisible in real life, indeed, than you see him in the drawing;
for if he were represented as inconspicuous as he looks you would say
there was no spider there at all, only a naked grass-stem. The delusion
is heightened by his lines and colours: he is mostly green or greenish,
with narrow black or brown stripes which run more or less up and down
his body, instead of cross-wise as usual, so that they harmonize
beautifully with the up-and-down lines of the blades and stem in the
tuft which he inhabits. When he is pressed close against a bent of
grass, on the look-out for flies, it is almost impossible for the
quickest eye to distinguish him. Flies come near, never suspecting the
presence of their hereditary foe; as soon as they are close to him, the
grass-spider rushes out with a dash and secures them. His jaws are among
the most terrible in all his terrible race: they are large and
wide-spreading, with two rows of teeth on either side, and a pair of
long fangs of truly formidable proportions.

[Illustration: 10.--GRASS-SPIDER, IN AMBUSH FOR FLIES.]

In other ways, also, this particular spider is a clever fellow, for he
lives near water; but when the rains are heavy and there is likely to be
a flood, he shifts his quarters higher up the ground, and so escapes
impending inundation.

Deceptions and false pretences of this sort are somewhat less common
among plants than among animals; but still, they occur, and that not
infrequently. "What? Plants deceive?" you cry. "The innocent little
flowers? How can they do it? Surely that is impossible!" By no means. I
have watched plant life pretty closely for a good many years now, and
every year the conviction is forced upon me more and more profoundly
that whatever animals do, plants do almost equally. There is no vile
trick or ruse or stratagem that they cannot imitate: no base deception
that they will not practise. They lie and steal with the worst; they
hold out false baits for deluded insects, and hide real fly-traps with
honeyed words and sweet secretions.

As a good illustration among English plants, look at the Grass of
Parnassus, that beautiful, dishonest bog-herb, with glossy-green leaves
and pure white blossoms, which is considered the especial guerdon of
poets. I found a whole nest of it once in a swamp near Cromer, and
carried off a bunch of the lovely flowers as an appropriate offering to
Mr. Swinburne who was stopping at Sidestrand. Yet this poet's flower,
dainty and delicate as it is--you see in No. 11 its counterfeit
presentment--is not ashamed to deceive the poor bees and flies in a way
which the Heathen Chinee would have considered unsportsmanlike. It is a
sham, a commercial sham of the worst type. It lives for the most part on
wet moors among mountains, or else in the boggy hollows between blown
sand-hills by the sea: and when its milk-white flowers star the ground
in such spots, it forms one of the loveliest ornaments of our English
flora. But trust it not, oh butterfly: it is fooling thee! From a
distance, it looks as if it were full of honey; it advertises well: but
at close quarters 'tis a wooden nutmeg; it turns out to be nothing
better than an arrant humbug.

[Illustration: 11.--GRASS OF PARNASSUS, DISPLAYING AND ADVERTISING ITS
IMITATION HONEY.]

The deception is managed in this disgraceful fashion. Inside each petal
lies a curious ten or twelve-fingered organ, which is in reality an
abortive stamen. No. 12 shows you one such petal removed, with the false
honey-glands drawn on a larger scale than in the other illustration. The
ten-fingered stamen bears at its tip a number of translucent yellow
drops, which look like pure nectar. But they are nothing of the kind; I
regret to say, they are solid--solid--a commercial falsehood. They
glisten like drops: but they are mere glassy imitations; and they are
put there with intent to deceive, in order to attract flies and other
insects, which come to quaff the supposed nectar, and so unwittingly
fertilize the seeds, while they are muddling about perplexed among the
pretended honey-glands, without getting paid one sip for their toil and
trouble. This is, of course, a flagrant case of obtaining services under
false pretences; it deserves fourteen days' without the option of a
fine. As a rule, in similar cases, the flies are rewarded for their kind
offices as carriers by the merited wage of a drop of honey. But the
Grass of Parnassus, mendacious herb, pretends to be purveying a
specially fine quantity and quality of nectar, while in reality it
offers only a hard, glassy knob with nothing in it. This pays the plant,
of course, because the blossoms do not have to go on producing honey
fresh and fresh; a mere inexpensive show does just as well as the real
article: "Our customers like it!" but the language of the flies when
they discover the fraud is something just awful.

[Illustration 12.--A SINGLE PETAL, TO SHOW THE CHARACTER OF THE SHAM
HONEY.]

Nor is this by any means a solitary example of plant depravity. The
whole group of pitcher-plants, for instance, cruelly manure themselves
by means of living insects in the most treacherous fashion. These lovely
and wicked plants live, without exception, in wet and boggy soil, where
they cannot get enough animal matter for manure in the ordinary way by
the roots: so they lay themselves out instead to capture and absorb the
tissues of insects. For this horrid purpose, they twist their leaves
into deep pitchers which catch and hold the rain water, and so form
reservoirs to drown their prey. Then they entice insects by bright
colours to their traps, and allure them to enter by secreting honey at
the top of the pitcher. Hairs point downward inside; these allow the
flies to walk on to their fate, bribed as they go by lines of nectar:
but if they try to return, ah, then they find their mistake: the hairs
prevent them, after the fashion of a lobster-pot. Thus they walk on and
on till they reach the water, when they are swamped and clotted in a
decaying mass, from which the treacherous plant draws manure at last for
its own purposes. The pitchers are thus at once traps to catch animals,
and stomachs to digest them.

Another and still odder case of deceptiveness in plants is shown by a
curious group of South African flowers, the Hydaoras and Stapelias.
These queer and malodorous herbs have very large and rather handsome but
fleshy blossoms, an inch or two across, dappled and spotted just like
decaying meat. They live in the dry and almost desert region, where
carrion-flies abound. Such flies lay their eggs and hatch out their
grubs for the most part in half-eaten carcasses of antelopes or smaller
animals killed and in part devoured by lions and other beasts of prey.
So the flowers have taken to imitating dead meat. They are a lurid red
in colour, with livid livery patches, and they have a strong and
unpleasant smell of decaying animal matter. The flies, deceived by the
scent, flock to them to lay their eggs, and in so doing carry out the
real object of the plant by fertilizing the blossoms. But, of course,
the whole thing is a vile sham; for when the maggots hatch out, the
flower has died, and there is no food for them, so they perish of
starvation. Dr. Blackmore, of Salisbury, once gave me some of these
curious plants and flowers: I noticed that in the sunlight, where they
smelt just like decomposing meat, they attracted dozens of bluebottle
flies and other carrion insects.

Protective resemblance also occurs among plants: for in the same dry
South African region, where every green thing gets nibbled down in the
rainless season, certain ice-plants and milk-weeds have acquired the
trick of forming tubers or stems exactly like the pebbles among which
they grow: so that when the leaves die down in the dry weather, the
tuber is not distinguishable from the stones all round it. Such tubers
are really reservoirs of living material destined to carry the life of
the plant over the dead season: as soon as rain comes again, they put
forth fresh green leaves at once, and grow on after their sleep as if
nothing had happened. Even terrifying attitudes are not unknown in the
vegetable world: for one of the uses of the movements in the Sensitive
Plant is almost certainly to frighten animals. Browsing creatures that
come near the bushes in their native woods see the leaves shrink back
and curl up when touched, and are afraid to eat a tree that has so
evidently a spirit in it. The Squirting Cucumber of the Mediterranean,
again, alarms goats and cattle by discharging its ripe fruits
explosively in their faces the moment the stem is touched. In this case
the primary object is no doubt the dispersal of the seeds, which squirt
out elastically as the fruit jumps off; but to frighten browsing enemies
is a secondary advantage. There can be no question as to the reality of
the plant's hostile intention, because the fruits also contain a pungent
juice, which discharges itself at the same instant into the eyes of the
assailant. As I have received a volley of this irritating liquid more
than once in my own face (in the pursuit of science) I can testify
personally on the best of evidence that it is distinctly painful. The
tactics of the Squirting Cucumber in first frightening you, and then
injecting acrid juice into your eyes, are thus exactly similar to the
plan of action pursued by the angry larva of the Puss Moth.



_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._

XLVIII.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)


THE SEARCH FOR GUY FAWKES.

[Illustration: A BEEF-EATER TEMP. HENRY VIII.]

The proceedings at the opening of the forthcoming Session, the fifth in
the fourteenth Parliament of Queen Victoria, will be fully reported in
the morning papers. There is a proceeding preliminary to the Speaker's
taking the Chair which, from its history and character, is of necessity
conducted in secret. It is the search through the underground chambers
and passages of the House with design to frustrate any schemes in the
direction of a dissolution of Parliament that descendants or disciples
of Guy Fawkes may have in hand. The present generation has seen, more
especially when a Conservative Government have been in power, some
revolutionary changes in Parliamentary procedure. The solemn search
underneath the Houses of Parliament, preceding the opening of the
revolving Sessions ever since Gunpowder Plot, is still observed with all
the pomp and circumstance attached to it three hundred years ago.

The investigation is conducted under the personal direction of the Lord
Great Chamberlain, who is answerable with his head for any miscarriage.
When a peer comes newly to the office he makes a point of personally
accompanying the expedition. But, though picturesque, and essential to
the working of the British Constitution, it palls in time, and the Lord
Great Chamberlain, relying upon the discretion, presence of mind, and
resource of his Secretary, usually leaves it to him. Oddly enough, the
House of Commons is not officially represented at the performance, the
avowed object of which is not, primarily, to secure the safety of the
Lords and Commons, but to avert the conclusion aimed at by Guy
Fawkes--namely, to blow up the Sovereign. It is as the personal
representative of the Queen that the Lord Great Chamberlain takes the
business in hand.

To this day the result of the inquiry is directly communicated to Her
Majesty. Up to a period dating back less than fifty years, as soon as
the search was over, the Lord Great Chamberlain dispatched a messenger
on horseback to the Sovereign, informing him (or her) that all was well,
and that Majesty might safely repair to Westminster to open the new
Session. To-day the telegraph wires carry the assurance to the Queen
wherever she may chance to be in residence on the day before the opening
of Parliament.


THE SEARCH PARTY.

Whilst the Commons take no official part in the performance, the peers
are represented either by Black Rod or by his deputy, the Yeoman Usher,
who is accompanied by half-a-dozen stalwart doorkeepers and messengers,
handy in case of a fray. The Board of Works are represented by the Chief
Surveyor of the London District, accompanied by the Clerk of Works to
the Houses of Parliament. The Chief Engineer of the House of Commons,
who is responsible for all the underground workings of the building,
leads the party, the Chief Inspector of Police boldly marching on his
left hand.

These are details prosaic enough. The nineteenth century has engrafted
them on the sixteenth. The picturesqueness of the scene comes in with
the appearance of the armed contingent. This is made up of some fourteen
or sixteen of the Yeomen of the Guard, who arrive at the place of
rendezvous armed with halberds and swords. The halberds look well, but
this search is, above all, a business undertaking. It is recognised that
for close combat in the vaults and narrow passages of the building
halberds would be a little unwieldy. They are accordingly stacked in the
Prince's Chamber, the Yeomen fearlessly marching on armed with nothing
but their swords. Clad in their fifteenth century costume, they are
commanded by an officer who wears a scarlet swallow-tailed coat, cocked
hat, and feathers, gilt spurs shining at his martial heel. The spurs are
not likely to be needed. But the British officer knows how to prepare
for any emergency.

Following the Yeomen of the Guard stride half-a-dozen martial men in
costumes dating from the early part of the present century. They wear
swallow-tail coats, truncated cone caps, with the base of the cone
uppermost. They are armed with short, serviceable cutlasses and bâtons,
such as undertakers' men carry, suggesting that they have come to bury
Guy Fawkes, not to catch him.

[Illustration: INSPECTOR HORSLEY.]

Most of the underground chambers and passages of the Houses of
Parliament are lit by electricity. Failing that, they are flooded with
gas. When search for Guy Fawkes was first ordered, the uses of gas had
not been discovered, much less the possibilities of electricity.
Lanterns were the only thing, so lanterns are still used. As the
dauntless company of men-at-arms tramp along the subterranean passages,
it is pretty to see the tallow dips in the swinging lanterns shamed by
the wanton light that beats from the electric lamps.


PARLIAMENTARY CAVES.

Her Majesty's Ministers meeting Parliament at the opening of their fifth
Session remain happy in the reflection that their position is not
endangered by any mines dug within the limits of their own escarpment.
It is different in the opposite camp. The first thing good Liberals do
as soon as their own party comes into power is to commence a series of
manoeuvres designed to thrust it forth. Sometimes they are called
"caves," occasionally "tearoom cabals." But, as Mr. Gladstone learned in
the 1868-74 Parliament, in that of 1880-85, and, with tragic force, in
the Parliament which made an end of what Mr. Chamberlain called "The
Stop-Gap Government," they all mean the same thing. Lord Rosebery when
he came to the Premiership found the habit was not eradicated.

[Illustration: A CAVE-MAN.]

The condition of men and things in the House of Commons when Parliament
met after the General Election in July, 1895, was rarely favourable to
the formation of "caves" on the Ministerial side. To begin with, the
Government had such an overwhelming majority that the game of playing at
being independent was so safe that its enjoyment was not forbidden to
the most loyal Unionist. Given that condition, there were existent
personal circumstances that supplied abundant material for cave-making.
The necessity imposed on Lord Salisbury of finding place in his
Ministry for gentlemen outside the Conservative camp made it impossible
not only to satisfy reasonable aspirations on the part of new men of his
own party, but even to reinstate some ex-Ministers. Some, like Baron de
Worms, were shelved with a peerage. Others, overlooked, were left to
find places on back benches above or below the gangway. Of men who held
office in Lord Salisbury's former Administration, Mr. Jackson, Sir James
Fergusson, Sir W. Hart-Dyke, and Sir E. Ashmead-Bartlett were left out
in the cold. Whilst most of the leading members of the Liberal Unionist
wing, including Mr. Jesse Collings and Mr. Powell Williams, were
provided with office, Mr. Courtney's claims were ignored, and Sir John
Lubbock's were probably never considered.

[Illustration: SHELVED WITH A PEERAGE. (BARON DE WORMS.)]

[Illustration: "WHO KNEW NOT JEMMY."]


AN OLD PARLIAMENTARY HAND.

Amongst Conservative members who had not been in office but were not
alone in their belief that they were well fitted for it were Mr. Gibson
Bowles and Mr. George Wyndham--the latter since deservedly provided for.
Moreover, to a corner seat below the gangway returned Mr. James Lowther,
thought good enough in Disraeli's time to be Under-Secretary for the
Colonies and Chief Secretary for Ireland. Since the death of Lord
Beaconsfield kings had arisen in Egypt who knew not "Jemmy," or, at
least, forgot his existence at a time when Ministerial offices were
dispensed. The member for East Thanet, first returned for York in the
summer of 1865, is not only personally popular in the House, but has
high standing as an old Parliamentary hand. If he had liked to turn
rusty, he might have done the Conservative Party at least as much harm
as Mr. Horsman when in the same mood wrought to the party with which, to
the last, he ranked himself. From time to time Mr. Lowther has
vindicated his independence of Ministerial discipline by dividing the
House on the question of the futility of reading, at the commencement of
recurring Sessions, the standing order forbidding peers to interfere
with elections. He has not gone beyond that, and whenever attempt has
been made from the Opposition side to inflict damage on the best of all
Governments, he has ranged himself on the side of Ministers.


OVERLOOKED.

Sir W. Hart-Dyke, Sir James Fergusson, and the late Sir W. Forwood,
instead of openly resenting neglect, on more than one occasion went out
of their way to defend the colleagues of the Prime Minister who slighted
them. Mr. Wyndham was last Session not less generously loyal. Mr. Tommy
Bowles, it is true, has been on occasion fractious. As for Sir E.
Ashmead-Bartlett, when he recovered from the shock of realization that
Lord Salisbury had not only formed a Ministry without including him in
its membership, but looked as if he would be able to carry it on, he
showed signs of resentment. Through successive Sessions he has
sedulously endeavoured to embarrass an unappreciative Premier by
cunningly devised questions addressed to the Colonial Secretary or to
the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Curzon
alike proved able to hold their own, and the Sheffield Knight coming out
to kick has found himself fulfilling the humble function of the
football.

[Illustration: THE HUMBLE FUNCTION OF THE FOOTBALL.]


MR. YERBURGH.

A more serious defection was threatened last Session as the result of
the distrust and discontent in Ministerial circles of Lord Salisbury's
foreign policy. Mr. Yerburgh, moved by apprehension that the interests
of the British Empire in the Far East were at stake, instituted a series
of weekly dinners at the Junior Carlton, where matters were talked over.
The dinners were excellent, the wines choice, and Mr. Yerburgh has a
delicate taste in cigars. This meeting at dinner instead of at tea, as
was the fashion in the Liberal camp at the time of Mr. Gladstone's
trouble over the Irish University Bill in 1873, seemed to indicate
manlier purpose. But nothing came of it, except a distinct advancement
of Mr. Yerburgh's position in the House of Commons. He, as spokesman of
the malcontents, found opportunity to display a complete mastery of an
intricate geographical and political position, combined with capacity
for forcibly and clearly stating his case.

Thus Lord Salisbury remained master of himself though China fell. Had
Mr. Gladstone been in his position, under precisely similar
circumstances, it would have been Her Majesty's Ministry that would have
fallen to pieces.


JOINED THE MAJORITY.

As usual the recess has seen the final going over to the majority of old
members of the House of Commons. Two who have died since the prorogation
were distinct types of utterly divergent classes. There was nothing in
common between the Earl of Winchilsea and Mr. T. B. Potter, except that
they both sat in the 1880 Parliament, saw the rise of the Fourth Party,
and the crumbling away of Mr. Gladstone's magnificent majority. Mr.
Potter was by far the older member, having taken his seat for Rochdale
on the death of Mr. Cobden in 1865. Except physically, he did not fill a
large place in the House, but was much esteemed on both sides for his
honest purpose and his genial good temper.

This last was imperturbable. It was not to be disturbed even by a double
misfortune that accompanied one of the Cobden Club's annual dining
expeditions to Greenwich. On the voyage out, passing Temple Pier, one of
the guests fell overboard. At the start on the return journey, another
guest, a distinguished Frenchman, stepping aboard as he thought, fell
into the gurgling river, and was fished out with a boat-hook. Yet Mr.
Potter, President of the Club, largely responsible for the success of
the outing, did not on either occasion intermit his beaming smile.


A BUFFER STATE.

He was always ready to be of service in whatsoever unobtrusive manner.
The House cherishes tender memories of a scene in 1890. The fight in
Committee Room No. 15 had recently closed. Its memories still seared
the breasts of the Irish members. Members were never certain that at any
moment active hostilities might not commence even under the eye of the
Speaker. One night a motion by Mr. John Morley raising the Irish
question brought a large muster of the contending forces. Mr. Parnell,
who had temporarily withdrawn from the scene, put in an appearance with
the rest. He happened to seat himself on the same bench as Mr. Justin
McCarthy, whom the majority of the Irish members had elected to succeed
him in the leadership. Only a narrow space divided the twain. The most
apprehensive did not anticipate militant action on the part of Mr.
McCarthy. But, looking at Mr. Parnell's pale, stern face, knowing from
report of proceedings in Committee Room No. 15 what passion smouldered
beneath that mild exterior, timid members thought of what might happen,
supposing the two rose together diversely claiming the ear of the House
as Leader of the Irish Party.

[Illustration: THE BUFFER STATE.]

At this moment Mr. T. B. Potter entered and moved slowly up the House
like a Thames barge slipping down the river with the tide. He made his
way to the bench where the severed Irish Leaders sat, and planted
himself out between them, they perforce moving to right and left to make
room. Seeing him there, his white waistcoat shimmering in the evening
light like the mainsail of an East Indiaman, the House felt that all was
well. Mr. Parnell was a long-armed man; but, under whatsoever stress of
passion, he could not get at Mr. McCarthy across the broad space of the
member for Rochdale.

[Illustration: THE LATE LORD WINCHILSEA.]


A PROMISING START.

Lord Winchilsea sat in this same Parliament as Mr. Finch-Hatton. He
early made his mark by a maiden speech delivered on one of the
interminable debates on Egypt. He was content to leave it there, never,
as far as I remember, again taking part in set debate. His appearance
was striking. Many years after, when he had succeeded to the earldom, I
happened to be present when he rose from the luncheon-table at
Haverholme Priory to acknowledge the toast of his health. By accident or
design he stood under a contemporary portrait of his great ancestor,
Christopher Hatton, Queen Elizabeth's Lord Chancellor. The likeness
between the founder of the family and a scion separated by the space of
more than three hundred years was almost startling.

Lord Winchilsea aged rapidly. When he made his maiden speech in the
House of Commons he had not advanced beyond the stage of the young
dandy. His face was a shade of ivory, the pallor made more striking by
the coal-black hair. His attitude, like his dress and everything about
him, was carefully studied. His left hand, rigidly extended, lightly
rested behind his back. His right hand, when not in action, hid his
finger-tips in the breast of a closely-buttoned frock-coat.
Occasionally, he withdrew his hand and made stiff gestures in the air as
if he were writing hieroglyphs. Occasionally, he emphasized a point by
slightly bowing to the amused audience.

The matter of his speech was excellent, its form, occasionally, as
extravagant as his getup. The House roared with laughter when Mr.
Finch-Hatton, pointing stiff finger-tips at Mr. Gladstone smiling on the
Treasury Bench, invited members to visit the Premier on his uneasy couch
and watch him moaning and tossing as the long procession of his pallid
victims passed before him. This reminiscence of a scene from "Richard
III." was a great success, though not quite in the manner Mr. Hatton,
working it out in his study, had forecast.

A man of great natural capacity, wide culture, and, as was shown in his
later connection with agriculture, of indomitable industry, he would,
having lived down his extravagancies, have made a career in the Commons.
Called thence by early doom he went to the Lords, and was promptly and
finally extinguished.


MUSTERED AT J. J. COLMAN'S.

Another old member of the House who died in the recess is Mr. Colman.
The great mustard manufacturer, whose name was carried on tin boxes to
the uttermost ends of the earth, never made his mark in the House of
Commons. I doubt whether he ever got so far as to work off his maiden
speech. A quiet, kindly, shrewd man of business, he was content to look
on whilst others fought and talked. He came too late to the House to be
ever thoroughly at one with it, and took an early opportunity of
retiring.

Mr. Gladstone had a high respect for him, and occasionally visited his
beautiful home in Norfolk. One of these occasions became historic by
reason of Mr. Gladstone unwittingly making a little joke. Coming down to
breakfast one morning, and finding the house-party already gathered in
the room, Mr. Gladstone cheerily remarked, "What, are we all mustered?"

He never knew why this innocent observation had such remarkable success
with Mr. J. J. Colman's guests.


MR. GLADSTONE'S TABLE-TALK.

A few more recollections of Mr. Gladstone whilst still in harness. I
remember meeting him at a well-known house during the Midlothian
campaign of 1885. He came in to luncheon half an hour late, and was
rallied by the host upon his unpunctuality. "You know," he said, "only
the other day you lectured us upon the grace of punctuality at
luncheon-time."

Mr. Gladstone took up this charge with energy familiar at the time in
the House of Commons when repelling one of Lord Randolph Churchill's
random attacks. Finally, he drew from the host humble confession that he
had been in error, that so far from recommending punctuality at
luncheon-time he had urged the desirability of absence of formality at
the meal. "Anyone," he said, "should drop in at luncheon when they
please and sit where they please."

Through the meal he was in the liveliest humour, talking in his rich,
musical voice. After luncheon we adjourned to the library, a room full
of old furniture and precious memorials, chiefly belonging to the Stuart
times. On the shelves were a multitude of rare books. Mr. Gladstone
picked up one, and sitting on a broad window seat, began reading and
discoursing about it. Setting out for a walk, he was got up in a most
extraordinary style. He wore a narrow-skirted square-cut tail-coat,
made, I should say, in the same year as the Reform Bill. Over his
shoulders hung an inadequate cape, of rough hairy cloth, once in vogue
but now little seen. On his head was a white soft felt hat. The back
view as he trudged off at four-mile-an-hour pace was irresistible.

Mrs. Gladstone watched over him like a hen with its first chicken. She
was always pulling up his collar, fastening a button, or putting him to
sit in some particular chair out of a draught. These little attentions
Mr. Gladstone accepted without remark, with much the placid air a small
and good-tempered babe wears when it is being tucked in its cot.


AN OLD LONDON HOUSE.

In the Session of 1890, Mr. Gladstone rented a house in St. James's
Square, a big, roomy, gloomy mansion, built when George I. was King. On
the pillars of the porch stand in admirable preservation two of the
wrought iron extinguishers, in which in those days the link-boys used to
thrust their torches when they had brought master or mistress home, or
convoyed a dinner guest. Inside hideous light-absorbing flock
wall-papers prevailed. One gained an idea, opportunity rare in these
days, of the murkiness amid which our grandfathers dwelt.

Dining there one night, I found the host made up for all household
shortcomings. He talked with unbroken flow of spirits, always having
more to say on any subject that turned up, and saying it better, than
any expert present. His memory was as amazing as his opportunities of
acquiring knowledge had been unique.

[Illustration: AT A FOUR-MILE-AN-HOUR PACE.]


MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD.

As we sat at table he, in his eighty-first year, recalled, as if it had
happened the day before, an incident that befell when he was eighteen
months old. Prowling about the nursery on all-fours, there suddenly
flashed upon him consciousness of the existence of his nurse, as she
towered above him. He remembered her voice and the very pattern of the
frock she wore. This was his earliest recollection, his first clear
consciousness of existence. His memory of Canning when he stood for
Liverpool in 1812 was perfectly clear; indeed, he was then nearly three
years old, and took an intelligent interest in public affairs.

Of later date was his recollection of Parliamentary Elections, and the
strange processes by which in the good old days they were accomplished.
The poll at Liverpool was kept open sometimes for weeks, and the custom
was for voters to be shut up in pens ten at a time. At the proper moment
they were led out of these inclosures and conducted to the
polling-booths, where they recorded their votes. These musters were
called "tallies," and the reckoning up of them was a matter watched with
breathless interest in the constituency.


DOCTORING A TALLY.

It was a point of keen competition which side should first land a
"tally" at the polling-booth. Mr. Gladstone told with great gusto of an
accident that befell one in the first quarter of the century. The poll
opened at eight o'clock in the morning. The Liberals, determined to make
a favourable start, marshalled ten voters, and as early as four in the
morning filled the pen by the polling-booth. To all appearances the
Conservatives were beaten in this first move. But their defeat was only
apparent. Shortly after seven o'clock a barrel of beer, conveniently
tapped, with mugs handy, was rolled up within hand-reach of the pen,
where time hung heavy on the hands of the expectant voters. They
naturally regarded this as a delicate attention on the part of their
friends, and did full justice to their hospitable forethought. After a
while, consternation fell upon them. Man after man hastily withdrew till
the pen was empty, and ten Conservatives, waiting in reserve, rushed in
and took possession of the place.

"The beer," said Mr. Gladstone, laughing till the tears came into his
eyes, "had been heavily jalaped."



DRAWING A BADGER

By EDMUND MITCHELL

[Illustration]


It was a sleepy little town, far from the busy world, almost hidden away
in the backwoods. During the long summer days, small boys--and sometimes
grown-up folks as well--hardly knew what to do to pass the time. It was
an event of some importance, therefore, when one afternoon Grizzly Jim,
the trapper, brought to the only hostelry the settlement could boast a
live badger. He carried it in a big bag, and shook it out over the
half-door into the empty stable, that the hotel-keeper and his friends
might have a look at the shy and rarely-seen animal. At that hour there
were not many people about, so when the other half of the stable door
was drawn to, and the captive left alone, the news of its arrival was as
yet known only to a few.

[Illustration: "HE SHOOK IT OUT OVER THE HALF-DOOR."]

Among these few, however, was the hotel-keeper's son Dick, a youngster
about twelve years old, who had inspected the badger with keenest
interest and a critical eye. He had also listened to every word of the
conversation between Grizzly Jim and his father, and had gathered that
they were going to pack up the beast in a box and send it off next day
by the railroad to a city, some hundreds of miles distant, where all
manner of strange creatures were kept in cages in a Zoo. So the badger
would be lodged in the hotel for one night only, and Dick reflected that
if any fun was to be got out of "the comical cuss," as he called it,
there was no time to be lost.

After a quarter of an hour's solid thinking, Dick went out into the
stable yard and dragged forth an old dog-kennel, which for a long time
had lain disused in the wood-shed. He rubbed it up a bit, plentifully
littered it with fresh straw, and then set it down right in the middle
of the yard. To the big chain he attached an old rusted iron kettle,
which he pushed back into the kennel among the straw as far as his arms
could reach. These preparations completed, Dick thrust his hands into
his trouser pockets, and set off down the main street, whistling a
tune.

At a little distance he met his most intimate chum, Billy Green, the
wheelwright's son.

"Say, Billy," said Dick, "heard the noos?"

"What noos?"

"Grizzly Jim's bin an' trapped a badger."

"Wal, that don't count for much. Ain't anythink very 'xtrord'n'ry in his
trappin' a badger, is there? Comes reg'lar in his day's work, I reckon.
Now, if it'd bin an elephant or a gi-raffe"--the speaker paused to give
full effect to his grin of sarcasm.

"Oh! bother yer elephants and yer gi-raffes," interrupted Dick, with
impatience; "I tell ye it's a real live badger."

"A live one?" asked Billy, his interest slightly stimulated.

"Yes, a live one. I see'd it shaken out of a bag. And it's up now this
very minute at father's."

"Jee-whizz!" cried Billy, all on the hop now with excitement. "Then I
s'pose they're goin' to have a badger fight?"

"A badger fight! Who're ye gettin' at?" retorted Dick, ironically.

"Why, ther'll be a badger fight with dogs, of course. Don't ye know,
Dick, that a badger, when his dander's fairly riz, can fight like a
whole sackful of wild cats? It's rare sport, badger-baitin', I can tell
ye, an' jest the real thing to try the stuff young dogs is made of."

"Better'n rats?" asked Dick, in turn growing excited at the vista of
unexpected possibilities opening out before him.

"Rats ain't in it with badgers," replied Billy, disdainfully.

"Then I 'spect Grizzly Jim's gone down town to hunt up some dogs,"
suggested Dick.

"Certain sure."

"Wal, hadn't you best come to our place right now, an' have a good look
at the critter 'fore the crowd begins to roll up?"

"I guess there's some sense in that. Let's skoot along, Dick."

So the two boys set off at a quick pace towards the hotel. And as they
walked Dick described the badger's points.

"He's got short stumpy legs, Billy, but terrible claws. Rip a dog open
like winkin'."

"And pooty sharp teeth too, I reckon?"

"I should jest say. Wouldn't like 'm try 'em in my leg."

"See you've got 'm in the old dog-kennel," remarked Billy, as they came
in sight of the stable yard.

"It's a strong chain that, you know," replied Dick, evasively. "Bruno,
the old boarhound that died, couldn't break it."

"Guess the chain'll hold the badger all right. But I can't see nothink
of 'm in that there dog-hutch. I'll want ter have 'm out, Dick, in the
open."

"You'd best take care, Billy," cried Dick, as his companion laid hold of
the chain. "Remember his claws."

"Oh! I'm not 'feard, you bet," replied Billy, loftily. "It needs
somethin' more'n a badger to skeer me. Besides, he can't scratch or bite
much through my leggin's."

"Mind, Billy," continued Dick, with an intensely anxious look on his
face. "I've warned ye. Don't ye come a hollerin' an' a blamin' me, if he
takes a bit out of yer leg."

"Poof! You keep back if ye'r fright'ned. Let me alone. I'll soon yank 'm
inter daylight." And Billy made ready to haul at the chain. "Come out o'
that, ye brute," he cried. "Yo! ho! out ye come!" And he pulled with all
his might.

There was a fine old clatter as the iron kettle came
clinkety-clink-clank on to the cobble stones; and Dick just lay down on
the ground, fairly doubled up with laughing.

"Look out, Billy," he yelled amidst his convulsions of glee, "look out.
That badger'll bite ye through yer leggin's."

For a minute Billy was speechless. He felt so sick and faint-hearted
that ordinary common-place language would have been an insult to his
feelings. "You tarnation fraud!" he at last managed to gasp, as he
glanced from the battered kettle at his feet towards his spluttering
friend.

But merriment is infectious, and the supreme ridiculousness of his
position appealed to Billy's sense of humour. So the flushed, angry look
passed by imperceptible degrees into a sickly smile, and the smile at
last became transformed into a broad grin. Then Billy sat down on the
kettle, and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

All of a sudden Dick recovered his gravity. "Quick, Billy," he cried,
"shove the kettle back. Here's the schoolmaster comin' 'long the
street."

With a more rapid flash of understanding than he had ever shown for a
new rule in arithmetic, Billy grasped the situation, and pushed the
kettle into the kennel out of sight. The boys stood together, just as
smug and quiet as if they were setting out for Sunday-school.

"Billy," said Dick, wishful to put matters right now that the victim of
his joke had become his confederate for future operations, "I didn't
tell a lie. There's a live badger in the stable as true as I'm standin'
here. But I never said 'twas in the kennel."

Billy, however, was intent only on the business in hand. The prospect of
sport caused the personal humiliation of a minute ago to be forgotten.
There was no need, nor time, for explanations.

"Whish! Stow all that," he whispered, eagerly. "Let's meet 'm at the
gate."

The two conspirators sauntered towards the entrance to the yard, as the
schoolmaster, an elderly, grave-faced man, drew near to the stable
buildings.

"Good day, sir," said Billy, as both youngsters jerked their hands
towards their caps awkwardly, but none the less deferentially.

"Ah! how do you do, boys?" responded the teacher, coming to a halt and
bestowing a pleasant nod of recognition on his pupils. "I hope you are
enjoying your holidays?"

[Illustration: "I HOPE YOU ARE ENJOYING YOUR HOLIDAYS?"]

"Yes, sir, first class," replied Dick. Then Billy boldly opened the
campaign. "Please, Mr. Brown, do you know the difference between a
mountain badger and a prairie badger?"

"I fancy I do, my lad. The one's darker than the other."

"Well, sir, Dick's father's had a live badger brought to him by Grizzly
Jim, and we don't know which kind it is." Billy skated very cleverly on
the thin ice of truth.

"Just let me have a sight of the animal," said the schoolmaster. At the
same moment he followed the direction of Dick's look, and there and then
fell unsuspectingly into the trap prepared for him. "Ah! I see you've
got him chained up in the kennel," he remarked, as he stepped into the
stable yard.

"Do badgers bite?" asked Dick, evading the issue with splendidly assumed
innocence.

"Oh! they don't show their teeth much, unless they're badgered," replied
Mr. Brown, with a laugh, thoroughly pleased with himself at having been
able to perpetrate a little joke. "Let's have him out, boys. I'll soon
tell whether he's a mountain badger or a prairie badger."

Dick and Billy hung back, apparently fearful of approaching too near to
the kennel.

"Don't be afraid, my lads," continued the master, in an encouraging way.
"He's all safe at the end of a chain. See: I'll pull him out for you.
Ya! hoop! Out you come, my fine fellow."

And the schoolmaster lugged at the chain; and clinkety-clink-clank came
the iron kettle on to the cobble stones.

No respect for either age or authority could restrain the boys from
going off into a fit of laughter. Their teacher's face was a study; its
look of blank amazement would have made a wooden totem-pole hilarious.
But they were relieved in mind, all the same, when a smile, even though
a grim one, stole over the stern, pallid features of the man who had it
in his power to make the lives of wayward boys utterly miserable.

"It's lucky for you young rascals that this is holiday time," remarked
the schoolmaster, drily. "I've got a tawse in my desk that can bite a
good deal sharper than this badger." Then, in spite of a momentary
feeling of resentment, he joined in the laugh against himself.

"Please, sir," explained Dick, partly in a spirit of penitence, but
mainly with a view to mitigate the offence, "the live badger that
Grizzly Jim brought father is in the stable right enough. It was you
yourself that went straight for the kennel."

"That's so," replied the schoolmaster, stroking his beard meditatively.
"I should have remembered the maxim of the copybooks, 'Think before you
leap.' Well, we're all liable to make mistakes, I suppose--even
parsons," he added, after a pause, and sinking his voice almost to a
whisper. He was gazing now down the street, with a far-away look in his
countenance.

The boys shot a quick glance in the same direction. A stout,
pompous-looking little man, with black coat and white collar, was in
sight.

"The parson's an erudite Doctor of Divinity," continued the
schoolmaster, speaking low, and in an absent-minded fashion. "He's had
all the advantages of a college education--a fact which he knows, and
takes care to let other people know. A man of learning is the parson,
and a great authority on natural history."

The boys did not hear, nor exactly understand, every word spoken; but
the last sentence fell clearly on their ears, and the looks they
exchanged indicated the dawning of intelligence.

"Yes; I wonder," murmured the pedagogue, reflectively, "I really wonder,
now, whether the parson could tell the difference between a mountain
badger and a prairie badger."

"By golly!" screamed Billy, in frantic excitement at the full flash of
comprehension. "Jam the kettle back into the kennel, Dick. Don't say a
word, Mr. Brown; please don't. Leave him to us."

The schoolmaster, chuckling to himself, began to examine a rose-bush
growing against the wall. Soon the parson was at the gate.

"Good evening, Mr. Brown," he called out.

"Good evening," mumbled the teacher, hardly daring to look up from the
roses.

"What have we here?" continued the clergyman, observing the unwonted
position of the kennel, and also noticing the flurried look on the boys'
faces. "What have we here?" he repeated, coming forward into the yard.

"Please, sir," began Dick, a dig in the ribs from Billy having warned
him that it was his turn to open fire. "Grizzly Jim's brought father a
real live badger."

"A badger, and a live one! Well?"

"And schoolmaster don't seem to be able to tell whether it's a mountain
badger or a prairie badger," added Dick, with a grin, adroitly bringing
the third confederate into the field of action.

"Didn't you examine the teeth, Mr. Brown?" asked the parson. "The colour
of the fur is no real test, you know."

"I can't say I've looked at its teeth," replied the teacher, with a
somewhat ghastly smile. He had not bargained for being anything more
than a passive witness of the parson's discomfiture, but here he was
now, by Dick's act of unblushing treachery, thrust into the position of
an active accomplice.

"Well, we must ascertain the animal's dentition. You see, in a mountain
badger, which is more carnivorous than the prairie variety, the canine
teeth are more fully developed." As the schoolmaster had said, the
parson was assuredly a learned man, and an authority on natural history,
to have all this information so readily at his command.

"But how are you going to look at his teeth?" asked Billy, practically.
"I reckon badgers bite."

"I'll soon show you, my boy," replied the parson, with a patronizing
smile. "He's in this kennel, is he?"

Billy's only response was a smile of satisfaction like that worn by the
cat when he spied that the door of the canary's cage had been left open.
But the clergyman did not wait for an answer, for, turning directly to
Dick, he asked the boy whether he could find him some such thing as a
piece of sacking.

"I guess I can," responded Dick, darting off like a shot towards the
stables. Within the minute he was back with an old corn-bag. The parson
was in the act of turning up his coat-sleeves, and was still discoursing
learnedly upon the carnivorous and frugivorous tastes of the different
species of the plantigrade family. The schoolmaster was listening
attentively, speaking not one word: his attitude was a deferential one,
or a guilty one, according to the observer's point of view.

"That will do first class, my boy," said the minister, taking the sack
from Dick's hands. "Now, you two lads, pull the chain gently, and I'll
get this round the badger as he emerges from the kennel. We must look
out for his claws, you know, as well as for his teeth; because the
badger, being a burrowing animal, is armed with long sharp claws, which
he also adapts to purposes of self-defence, using them with great
courage and effect when attacked. Slowly now, boys; cautious does it.
Here he comes! There you are! I have him all safe!"

And the parson, as a heap of accumulating straw began to appear at the
mouth of the kennel, pushed in the sack, and wrapped it tightly round
the black object beyond.

"Pull now again, boys; gently. That's right. Now he's out."

Then the parson paused, and looked a bit puzzled. "This badger must have
been injured, surely. He doesn't show much fight." Saying these words,
he proceeded to cautiously raise one corner of the sacking. "Whoa! now;
steady. No snapping, you brute," continued the parson, in a purring,
conciliatory voice, as he slowly lifted the bag.

The spout of the iron kettle met his dumfoundered foundered gaze!

Dick and Billy were by this time hiding behind the water-barrel,
stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths. The schoolmaster looked down
with a gleeful grin it was impossible to repress.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Brown?" sputtered the parson, rising
to his feet. The flush on his face was due less to resentment than to
wounded pride.

"It just means, Mr. Blinkers, that these young scamps first fooled me,
and for the life of me I can't deny but I've enjoyed their passing the
joke on to you."

The schoolmaster laughed outright, but the parson still looked painfully
self-conscious.

"The miserable little prevaricators!" he muttered.

"No," said the teacher, "you can't call them that. The boys haven't
spoken a word that's untrue, because the badger, I believe, is actually
in the stable over there. In taking it for granted that the beast was in
this kennel, we rushed to conclusions, and have had to pay the penalty."

The mortified expression on the parson's face became somewhat softened.
He gazed in a half-rueful, half-amused way at the old iron kettle, still
partially covered by the sacking.

"To think that I was led into talking about the dentition of
that--that--infernal thing," he sighed. "Oh! it would need a layman to
express my feelings," he added, clenching his fists as if in impotent
despair, while with a feeble smile he glanced at the schoolmaster.

"Well," laughed the latter, "strong language isn't in my line any more
than yours, Mr. Blinkers, so I'm afraid I can't oblige. I fancy,
however, that if ever again anyone asks you or me the difference between
a mountain badger and a prairie badger we'll be just a trifle shy at
answering--eh, my friend?"

[Illustration: "'NO SNAPPING, YOU BRUTE,' CONTINUED THE PARSON."]

The parson laughed outright: the fit of dudgeon was finally past. And
when the two men left the stable yard arm-in-arm, the mischief-makers,
who still remained discreetly invisible, could see the backs and
shoulders of both of them fairly shaking with laughter.

Round the corner, the schoolmaster and the minister met the hotel-keeper
standing at the front door of his hostelry; and with the greatest good
humour in the world they told him the story. The joke was really too
excellent to keep; moreover, it was sure to go the round of the whole
town before the world was many hours older, so that the victims
consulted their own personal comfort best by leading off the inevitable
laugh, and so, in a measure at least, disarming ridicule.

"The whipper-snappers!" said the burly host, hardly knowing at first
whether to condole with the dignitaries of church and school or to
indulge the merriment that was bubbling up within him.

"Boys will be boys," remarked the parson, condescendingly.

"And the trick was cleverly done," added the schoolmaster,
appreciatively. He was in reality too overjoyed at his own success in
having hauled the parson into the pillory alongside of him to feel any
resentment.

"Oh! well, we do need a laugh sometimes in this dull place," replied the
hotel-keeper, allowing the broad smile hitherto repressed to suffuse his
rubicund countenance. But he kept his mirth within moderate bounds so
long as the others were in hearing. When they were gone, however, loud
and long was his laughter.

"Dick, the little cuss!" he cried, slapping his thigh. "And Billy, that
young varmint! It'll tickle his dad to death when he hears it. To fool
the schoolmaster showed a bit of pluck. But to take down the
passon--oh, lor!" And the jolly innkeeper laughed till his sides ached.

After a little time Grizzly Jim slouched into the bar, and the story was
retailed for his benefit. The old trapper laughed heartily, although in
the silent way his profession had taught him.

"Blame my skin!" he exclaimed, "if it ain't the foxiest thing in the
snarin' line I've struck for a long time. But I reckon, boss, I'll take
a hand now in this 'ere game. You fix up an excuse to git the youngsters
out of the yard for ten minutes, and I reckon I'll make 'em skin their
eyes with 'mazement next time they yank out that badger."

Jim sauntered round the front of the house, while the host went direct
to the stable yard. He found the two boys in close confabulation near
the dog-kennel; and he also quietly observed that the kettle was again
inside, so that the trap was clearly baited for the next victim that
might chance to come around.

"Halloa, Billy!" cried the hotel-keeper, apparently unobservant of the
fact that the kennel was not in its usual place, and quite ignorant of
the game that was being played; "can you help Dick eat some apples?"

"Can a duck swim?" asked the youngster, perkily, by way of reply. Every
urchin in the place was on terms of easy familiarity with mine host of
the inn.

"Then round you come, the pair of you, to the orchard." And for the next
quarter of an hour the boys' game was changed--badgers were out and
apples were in.

Meanwhile Grizzly Jim was losing no time. When he saw the coast clear,
he walked up the yard and entered the stable. There he dexterously
caught the badger by the nape of the neck; it was not a full-grown
animal, and the experienced trapper had no difficulty in handling it. He
carried it out at arm's length, the beast clawing the air vigorously but
vainly. Reaching the kennel, Jim quickly substituted the badger for the
kettle at the end of the chain. Then, when the captive had retreated to
the furthest recess of its new quarters, he carefully re-arranged the
straw litter; and, tossing the discarded kettle into the wood-shed,
sauntered away with a sardonic grin on his sun-dried countenance. He
crossed the street to the grocery store opposite, whence he could
command a view of the yard.

A few minutes later the boys, their pockets stuffed full of apples,
returned to the scene of their exploits, followed at a little distance
by the hotel-keeper. The latter wore a look of good-humoured expectancy;
for, although he did not know precisely what the trapper's plans were,
he felt sure that there was fun in near prospect. Dick was busy munching
an apple and cogitating how it would be possible to victimize his
father, when his eye caught sight of Grizzly Jim crossing the street
from the grocery store with a big box on his shoulders.

"I guess, dad, here's Jim a-comin' to take that badger away," remarked
the boy, indicating by means of the half-eaten apple in his hand the
lanky figure of the trapper.

"Most likely," answered his father, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

Billy, however, had at once seen the possibilities of this new
development, and his face lit up instantly with all the keen excitement
of a fox-terrier in the act of pouncing on a rat. "We must take a rise
out o' Grizzly Jim," he whispered eagerly to his comrade in mischief.

As for Jim, he seemed to play right into the young rascals' hands, for
the first remark he made was this: "The schoolmaster has jest bin
sayin', boys, that you've got my badger in that 'ere dog-kennel."

"Wal, and what if we have?" asked Billy, boldly.

"Oh! I'm makin' no complaint. But here's his box for the railroad, and I
think we'd best put him in it right now. P'raps you'll lend me a hand,
youngsters?"

"Right you are, Jim," cried both boys with alacrity, advancing towards
the kennel.

"Did jevver know sich luck?" asked Billy, in a whisper, nudging his
companion with his elbow.

"It's 'nough to make a feller die with laughin'," chuckled Dick, under
his breath.

"Guess, then, yer not afeared o' badgers, you boys?" drawled Jim,
setting down the box.

"Not badgers of this sort," replied Billy, with a grimace.

"So you've found out this 'un's only a babby?" continued the trapper;
"hasn't got all his teeth yet, eh, an' couldn't scratch very hard if he
tried?" As Jim spoke he picked up the slack of the chain, to the boys'
intense delight.

"I reckon the badger at the end o' that chain won't hurt us much,"
responded Billy, airily. But Dick had to turn his face away to hide the
laughter with which he was now almost bursting.

"Wal, boys, if I pull 'm out, you'll ketch 'm, will ye, an' shove 'm in
the box?"

"Right you are, Jim. You jest pull, and we'll grab."

"But p'r'aps you'd be safer to let me come an' help ye hold the
critter," added the trapper, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Help be blowed," cried Billy. "I reckon we don't need no help to manage
this 'ere outfit, eh, Dick?" And the boys laughed in each other's faces,
as they carried the box close up to the kennel, and opened the lid in
readiness.

"Right ye are, sonnies," replied Jim. "Have yer own way. But don't ye
forget I gave ye fair warnin'."

[Illustration: "BOYS AND BADGER WERE MIXED UP IN A SQUIRMING HEAP."]

"We can look after ourselves, you bet," answered Billy, impatiently.
"Jest you haul away."

"Wal, here we go," said Jim, a faint smile showing on his thin lips.
"Grip him the moment he shows his nose. Don't be frightened at the sight
of his claws."

The lads were stooping ready to grab at the old iron kettle the moment
it should make its appearance. Both were chuckling with glee. And the
best of the joke was that Grizzly Jim had brought the whole thing right
upon himself!

"Hoop, la!" cried Jim, and with a pull that would have dragged a camel
off its legs, he jerked the occupant of the kennel into the open.

In their eagerness as to who should hold aloft the spurious badger
before the astonished eyes of Grizzly Jim, the boys fairly flung
themselves upon the black object at the end of the chain.

Then there followed, oh! such a yelling and a screeching, such a
snapping and a snarling! Dick rolled over Billy, and boys and badger
were mixed up in a squirming heap.

"Shall I come and help ye hold the critter?" called out the trapper,
cheerfully.

"No, but come and help us let him go," screamed Dick.

"My sakes!" roared Billy; "he's got me by the leg."

But at this stage Grizzly Jim came to the rescue. The young badger was
quickly caught, and popped into the box, while the disconcerted and
crestfallen urchins struggled to their feet.

"Guess badgers are kind o' more savage beasties than ye reckoned on,"
remarked the trapper, with dry sarcasm.

"No wonder the schoolmaster and the passon were skeered," laughed the
hotel-keeper, who had enjoyed the whole scene from a little distance.

Then it dawned upon the youngsters how neatly the tables had been turned
on them; so, in spite of torn clothes and scratched skins, they did
their best like true sportsmen to grin and look pleasant. But it will be
some time before they try to take another rise out of Grizzly Jim.



_A Common Crystal._

By John R. Watkins.


Hard to believe, but true. The locomotive shown in the illustration
below rests and runs upon a lake of salt--a surface almost as solid as
the road-bed of a great passenger system. The engine puffs to and fro
all day long on the snow-like crust, while a score of steam-ploughs make
progress with a rattling, rasping noise, dividing the lake into long and
glittering mounds of salt, which are shovelled by busy Indians on to the
waiting cars. The sun shines with almost overwhelming power, and the
dazzling carpet of salt stretches away to the horizon, where it
disappears.

[Illustration: _From a_] LOADING A TRAIN ON A LAKE OF SALT, IN SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA. [_Photograph._]

The scene is in Salton, in far-off Southern California. Two months ago
we described a wonderful city of salt which for centuries has existed
below the surface of the earth. Here in Salton, striking sights may be
seen in the full light of day. One gets some little idea of them from
the photographs, but the general effect of this huge natural store-house
of commercial salt, its enormous crystal lake, and its massive pyramids
of white awaiting shipment, can be but partially conceived from our
pictures.

To enter into a complete description of the remarkable industry which
transfers a common crystal from a lake of brine to the working-man's
table would be beyond the limits of our magazine. It would involve a
discussion of chemical symbols and formulæ which would make the printed
page a cryptograph. Better is it, briefly, to say that much of the salt
found in the domestic salt-cellar comes from the water of the sea,
which, by evaporation, is turned from liquid into snowy powder. In
Salton Lake, which lies 280ft. below the sea level; the brine rises in
the bottom of the marsh from numerous springs in the neighbouring
foot-hills, and, quickly evaporating, leaves deposits of almost pure
salt, varying from 10in. to 20in. in thickness, and thus forming a
substantial crust. The temperature ranges from 120 to 150 degrees, and
all the labour is performed by Coahuilla Indians, who work ten hours a
day, and seem not in the least to mind the enervating heat. In fact,
these Indians are so inured to the fatiguing work that they are not
affected by the dazzling sunlight, which distresses the eyes of those
unaccustomed to it, and compels the use of coloured glasses. One of
these Indians may be seen sitting on the steam-plough shown on this
page. He is one of a tribe of large and well-developed men--peaceable,
civilized, sober, and industrious, living in comfortable houses built by
the New Liverpool Salt Works, with tables, chairs, forks, spoons, and
many of the necessary articles of domestic civilization. He guides his
plough over the long stretches of salt, running lightly at first over
the surface to remove any vestiges of desert sand blown from far away,
and then setting the blade to run 6in. deep in furrows 8ft. wide. Each
plough harvests daily over 700 tons of pure salt, which is then taken to
the mill to be ground and placed in sacks. Scores of men assist in the
harvest by loading small "dump-cars," or trollies, on portable rails,
the cargo being finally dumped on the large train or else carried direct
to the manufactory.

[Illustration: _From a_] A SALT-PLOUGH AT WORK. [_Photograph._]

The interesting history of the salt industry in California is largely
associated with the name of Plummer Brothers, who in 1864, in the person
of the late Mr. J. A. Plummer, made the first genuine attempt to produce
a first-class domestic salt. The extensive and striking premises of this
noted firm in Centreville, California, are shown in the two
illustrations on the next page. Situated as the district is close to the
bay, the industry is dependent to a certain extent upon the tides. The
early spring tides have little effect in drawing away the impurities
which the river-floods bring into the bay; but the tides of June and
July, rising as they do to a height of 6ft. or 7ft., fill the marshes
with a water fairly pure. The salt-makers have prepared for this influx
of water by making reservoirs in large clay-bottomed tracts of marsh
land, and have cleared them of weeds and grass. The water flows in and
fills the reservoirs to a depth of from 15in. to 18in., and the gates
are then closed.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] TRANSPORTING SALT IN WHEEL-BARROWS.
[_Mr. C. A. Plummer._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] SALT CRYSTALLIZING PONDS. [_Mr. C. A.
Plummer._]

[Illustration: _Photo. from_] SALT-MAKING IN RAJPUTANA. [_Rev. Henry
Lansdell, D.D., Blackheath._]

Like a large family, descending in size from father to youngest son, the
six or seven evaporating ponds of a salt works appear. The large
reservoir, being the father of this series of ponds, contains the gross
amount of brine, the last two or three being called lime-ponds, owing to
the amount of gypsum, lime, etc., precipitated at this stage of
evaporation. Not to go too deeply into chemistry, it may be said that
the brine lingers in the last of these ponds until a density of 106
degrees is obtained. The surface of the liquid is now dotted by small
patches of white which accumulate into streaks of drift-salt. This
interesting development is shown in the illustration above, the streaks
of salt looking like patches of surf on the sands of the sea-shore. The
liquid is now run into crystallizing vats, where it remains until the
salt crystals have formed at the bottom. It sometimes takes two months
for a crop of salt to develop. In harvesting, the workman, donning
large, flat sandals of wood, enters the vat with a galvanized shovel,
and marks off on the surface of the salt a series of parallel lines.
This process enables the labourers to toss the lumps into uniform piles.
A strict examination is made of every shovelful, in order that
impurities may be eliminated. Our illustrations show these conical
mounds of salt, and the transfer of the salt by means of barrels to
large platforms, where the crystal product is thrown into huge pyramids,
sometimes 25ft. high. Here it remains, bleaching and solidifying for a
year. It is, indeed, a picturesque sight to see these ghost-like
pyramids grow in their might from day to day.

[Illustration: _Photo. from_]

MEASURING SALT-HEAPS IN RAJPUTANA.

[_Rev. Henry Lansdell, D.D., Blackheath._]

Into the processes by which these massive mounds of hardened salt are
crushed and distributed to the markets, we need not enter; nor need we
name the varieties of salt which are so distributed. We find something
more interesting in turning from California to Central India, where in
Rajputana a tremendous industry in salt is carried on, and where we may
see the same little piles of salt that we have noted in the previous
illustrations.

In the background of the large full-page picture, which we have just
passed, may be seen colossal heaps of salt, and in the foreground scores
of men, women, and children wading in the vat of sluggish brine, from
which, by dint of constant effort, emerge the little cones of white. The
overseers stand by to direct, and the scene is one of tremendous
interest and activity, punctuated by babble of voices. We get a closer
view of these cones in our last illustration, in which we find the
coolies measuring the height of the cones. One thing we miss in these
vistas of barren whiteness--the sight of the labour-saving machinery so
noticeable in our early illustrations. Is it an object-lesson in the
differences between East and West?



_A Peep into "Punch."_

By J. Holt Schooling.

[_The Proprietors of "Punch" have given special permission to reproduce
the accompanying illustrations. This is the first occasion when a
periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch's
famous pages._]

Part II.--1850 to 1854.


Some while ago, in the pantomime "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves," Ali
Baba's brother, who had found his way into the secret cave, ran about in
a most ludicrous manner eagerly picking from the floor diamonds, rubies,
and emeralds as big as ostrich-eggs: as fast as he picked up another gem
he let one fall from his already loaded arms. I laughed at Ali Baba's
brother, but did not feel sympathetic.

[Illustration: 1.--THIS INITIAL LETTER "L" IS SIR JOHN TENNIEL'S FIRST
"PUNCH" DRAWING; NOVEMBER 30, 1850.]

_Now_, I do not laugh, and I do feel sympathetic with A. B.'s
brother--for in choosing these pictures from _Punch_, one no sooner
picks out a gem, with an "I'll have _you_," than on the turn of a page a
better picture comes, and the other has to be dropped. It goes as much
against my grain to leave such a host of good things hidden in _Punch_
as it went against the covetous desires of Ali Baba's wicked brother to
leave so many fine big gems behind him in the richly-stored cave.
However, Mr. Punch's whole store of riches is, after all, accessible to
anyone whose Open Sesame! is a little cheque, and so one has some
consolation for being able to show here only a very small selection from
Mr. Punch's famous gallery of wit and art which that discerning
connoisseur has been collecting during the last sixty years.

The year 1850 was a notable one for _Punch_, for then John Tenniel
joined the famous band of Punchites. His first contribution is shown in
No. 1, the beautiful initial letter _L_ with the accompanying sketch,
which, although it is nearly fifty years old, and is here in a reduced
size, yet distinctly shows even to the non-expert eye the touch of that
same wonderful hand which in this week's _Punch_ (November 26th, 1898)
drew the cartoon showing Britannia and the United States as two
blue-jackets in jovial comradeship under the sign of the "Two Cross
Flags," with jolly old landlord _Punch_ saying to them, "Fill up, my
hearties! It looks like 'dirty weather' ahead, but you two--John and
Johnathan--will see it through--_together_!"

[Illustration: 2.--JUSTIFIABLE HESITATION. 1850.]

Glancing at Nos. 2 and 3--Leech's sketch in No. 3 is, by the way, a
truthfully graphic reminder to the writer of the first time _he_
[unexpecting] heard and saw a strong Cornish cock-pheasant get up close
at his feet--we come to No. 4, which represents the British Lion (as
taxpayer) looking askance at the Prince of Wales, aged nine, on whose
behalf application had just been made for the purchase of Marlborough
House as a residence for the Prince. The portly man in the picture on
the wall is a former Prince of Wales, the Regent who became George IV.
in 1820, and who is here seen walking by the Pavilion at Brighton, built
in 1784-87 as a residence for this Prince of Wales.

[Illustration: 3.--BY LEECH. 1850.]

No. 5 is very funny, and it is one of the many _Punch_ jokes which are
periodically served up afresh in other periodicals. I have read this
joke somewhere quite lately, although it came out in _Punch_ nearly
fifty years ago.

On this score, does anyone know if the following is a _Punch_ joke? It
was lately told to me as a new joke, but I was afraid to send it to Mr.
Punch:--

Two London street-Arabs. One is eating an apple, the other gazes
enviously, and says, "Gi'e us a bite, Bill." "Sha'n't," says the
apple-eater. "Gi'e us the core, then," entreats the non-apple-eater.
"_There ain't goin' to be no core!_" stolidly replies the other, out of
his stolidly munching jaws.

[Illustration: 4.--THE PRINCE OF WALES AT AGE NINE. BY LEECH, 1850.]

The very clever drawing No. 6 is by Richard Doyle; it was published in
1850, and at the close of that year Doyle left _Punch_ owing to
_Punch's_ vigorous attack on "Popery"--the Popery scare got hold of the
public mind in 1849, and for some while _Punch_ published scathing
cartoons against Roman Catholicism. Doyle being of that faith resigned
his position and a good income through purely conscientious motives.
Although Doyle left in 1850 his work was seen in _Punch_ as lately as
1864, for when he resigned some of his work was then unpublished. This
funny illustration of "A meeting to discuss the principles of Protection
and Free Trade" was an outcome of the intensely bitter feeling between
the partisans of both sides which marked the carrying-on by Lord John
Russell of the system established by Sir Robert Peel in 1846 for
throwing open our market-doors to free trade with foreign nations.

[Illustration: 5.--A CLEAR CASE OF LIBEL. 1851.]

[Illustration: 6.--BY RICHARD DOYLE. 1850.]

No. 7 is one of the minor hits at "Papal Aggression" made by _Punch_
fifty years ago, and it is irresistibly funny.

[Illustration: 7.--THE APPARITION. 1850.]

[Illustration: 8.--THIS IS SIR JOHN TENNIEL'S FIRST CARTOON; FEBRUARY 8,
1851.]

Sir John Tenniel's first cartoon is shown in No. 8. It represents Lord
John Russell as David, backed by Mr. Punch and by John Bull, attacking
Cardinal Wiseman as Goliath, who is at the head of a host of Roman
Catholic archbishops and bishops. A very interesting mention is made by
Mr. Spielmann, in his "History of Punch," of the circumstances which
caused Tenniel to join _Punch_, and to become the greatest cartoonist
the world has produced:--

     Had the Pope not "aggressed" by appointing archbishops and bishops
     to English sees [This caused all the exaggerated pother and flutter
     of 1849.--J. H. S.], and so raised the scare of which Lord John
     Russell and Mr. Punch really seem to have been the leaders, Doyle
     would not have resigned, and no opening would have been made for
     Tenniel.

      Sir John, indeed, was by no means enamoured of the prospect of
      being a _Punch_ artist, when Mark Lemon [the editor in 1850.--J.
      H. S.] made his overtures to him. He was rather indignant than
      otherwise, as his line was high art, and his severe drawing above
      "fooling." "Do they suppose," he asked a friend, "that there is
      anything funny about _me_?" He meant, of course, in his art, for
      privately he was well recognised as a humorist; and little did he
      know, in the moment of hesitation before he accepted the offer,
      that he was struggling against a kindly destiny.

Thus we may say that the "Popish Scare" of fifty years ago was a main
cause of the Tenniel cartoons in the _Punch_ of to-day.

[Illustration: 9.--ILLUSTRATING THE CONNECTION BY ELECTRIC CABLE BETWEEN
ENGLAND AND FRANCE. BY LEECH, 1851.]

The picture in No. 9, "The New Siamese Twins," celebrates the
successful laying of the submarine cable between Dover and Calais,
November 13, 1851: the closing prices of the Paris Bourse were known
within business hours of the same day on the London Stock Exchange. The
use by Leech of the words in the title, "Siamese Twins," refers to the
visit to this country of a Barnum-like natural monstrosity--a pair of
twins whose bodies were joined--a freak that was also the origin of a
toy sold in later years with the same title. In the year 1851 _Punch_
secured another of its most famous artists--Charles Keene--whose first
contribution is shown in No. 10.

[Illustration: 10.--THIS IS CHARLES KEENE'S FIRST "PUNCH" DRAWING;
DECEMBER 20, 1851.]

[Illustration: 11.--BY LEECH. 1851.]

[Illustration: 12.--BY LEECH. 1851.]

[Illustration: 13.--AN INCIDENT OF THE 1851 CENSUS.]

This sketch has little of a joke in it--the shakiness of drawing is
intentional [see the description given in No. 10], and the following
account of this poor little picture, so interesting as the first by
Keene, is given by Mr. G. S. Layard in his "Life and Letters of Charles
Samuel Keene":--

     In 1848, Louis Napoleon had been elected to the French Presidency
     ...; 1849 witnessed the commencement of those violent political
     struggles which were the forerunners of internal conspiracies; and
     1851 saw this practical anarchy suddenly put a stop to by the
     famous, or infamous, _coup d'état_ of December 2nd.

     Towards the end of that month a very modest wood-cut, bearing the
     legend "Sketch of the Patent Street-sweeping Machines lately
     introduced at Paris" appeared on p. 264 of "Mr. Punch's" journal.
     It represented a couple of cannon drawn with the waviest of
     outlines, and the letter "A" marked upon the ground directly in
     their line of fire [see No. 10.--J. H. S.]....

     This was the first appearance of Keene's pencil in the pages which
     he was destined to adorn with increasing frequency as time went on
     for nearly forty years. The sketch is unsigned. Indeed, it was
     only at the urgent request of his friend, Mr. Silver, in whose
     brain the notion had originated, that the drawing was made, the
     artist bluntly expressing his opinion that the joke was a mighty
     poor one.

[Illustration: FIRST DESIGN.]

[Illustration: SECOND DESIGN.]

[Illustration: THIRD DESIGN.]

[Illustration: FOURTH DESIGN.]

[Illustration: FIFTH DESIGN.]

[Illustration: SIXTH DESIGN.]

[Illustration: 14.--MR. PUNCH'S "WARDROBE OF OLD COATS." BEING THE SIX
DESIGNS FOR THE FRONT PAGE OF THE WRAPPER OF "PUNCH" WHICH PRECEDED THE
DESIGN NOW IN USE.]

Pictures 11 to 13 bring us to No. 14, which contains small facsimile
reproductions of the six designs on the front of the _Punch_-wrapper,
which preceded the well-known design by Richard Doyle, now used every
week. These little pictures have been made direct from the original
_Punch_-wrappers in my possession, as it was found impossible to get
satisfactory prints in so small a size as these from the much larger
blocks that Messrs. Cassell and Company very kindly lent to me,
impressions from which can be seen by readers who may like to study the
detail of these designs in Mr. Spielmann's "History of Punch," which
contains a full account of them. Incidentally, it is interesting to note
that when these designs were made it would have been impossible to
obtain from them the excellent reduced facsimiles now shown, which, by
the way, have only now been obtained after several attempts--as each of
these pretty little pictures has been reduced from the full size of the
ordinary _Punch_-page.

[Illustration: 15.--BY LEECH. 1852.]

The first design was made in 1841 by A. S. Henning, Mr. Punch's first
cartoonist. In the early years of _Punch_ the design for the wrapper was
changed for each half-yearly volume, and early in 1842 the second design
was adopted: this was drawn by Hablot K. Browne ("Phiz"), who worked for
_Punch_ during 1842-1844, leaving _Punch_ in 1844, because the paper
could not at that time stand the financial strain of the two big guns,
Leech and "Phiz". H. K. Browne went back to Mr. Punch in later years,
and Mr. Spielmann has recorded that this "brave worker, who would not
admit his stroke of paralysis, but called it rheumatism, could still
draw when the pencil was tied to his fingers and answered the swaying of
his body."

The third wrapper is by William Harvey, and was used for Vol. III. of
_Punch_ in the latter part of 1842. The artist "spread consternation in
the office by sending in a charge of twelve guineas" for this third
wrapper--twelve guineas being, by the way, nearly one-half of the total
capital with which _Punch_ was started in 1841.

The fourth wrapper was designed by Sir John Gilbert, whose work for
_Punch_, although greatly intermittent, and small in quantity, was
spread over a longer period than that of any other _Punch_ artist--save
Sir John Tenniel. This wrapper covered the first part of 1843, and it
was used until recent years as the pink cover of _Punch's_ monthly
parts.

The fifth wrapper is by Kenny Meadows--you can just see his signature on
the lower rim of the drum--and it was used in the latter part of 1843.
Then, in January, 1844, Richard Doyle, Mr. Punch's latest recruit, was
employed to design the new wrapper--the sixth of our illustration No.
14. This design was used until January, 1849, and then Doyle made the
alterations which distinguish this sixth wrapper from the one now in use
and which has been used ever since.

[Illustration: 16.--TO TERRIFY THE ENEMY. 1852.]

A little boy's advice to his grandfather is illustrated by Leech in No.
15, and No. 16 suggests an added horror of war. The humorous prospectus
in No. 17 concludes with the words:--

     Something turns up every day to justify the most sanguine
     expectation that an El Dorado has really been discovered. In the
     meantime, the motto of the Company is "Otium Sine Dig." [_Ease
     without dignity_]. Applications for Shares to be made immediately
     to the above addresses, as a preference will be shown to
     respectable people.

By the way, when Mr. Punch wrote this skit about "Gold in England," he
and his public were alike unaware that gold is really in this
country--gold ore worth £15,000 was dug up in 1894 out of this country:
1894 being the most recent year for which I have the official return of
mining.

[Illustration: 17.--MR. PUNCH'S ACCOUNT OF A COMPANY-PROMOTING SWINDLE.
1852.]

No. 18 depicts a moment of half-delightful, half-awe-stricken,
anticipation by the amateur clown, pantaloon, and columbine of the exact
result that will follow the application of the (real) red-hot poker to
the old gentleman's legs.

[Illustration: 18.--BY LEECH. 1853.]

No. 19 is Mr. Punch's tribute to the Duke of Wellington which, a week
later (October 2nd, 1852), was followed by a cartoon by Tenniel
containing in a mournful pose one of Tenniel's splendid British lions
that have intermittently during so many years been a prominent feature
of his cartoons.

[Illustration: 19.--THE OBITUARY NOTICE IN "PUNCH" ON THE DUKE OF
WELLINGTON. SEPTEMBER 25, 1852.]

[Illustration: 20.--THE COMING OF PHOTOGRAPHY [AND OF THE BULL] BY
"CUTHBERT BEDE," 1853.]

No. 20 is by "Cuthbert Bede" [the Reverend Edward Bradley], the author
of "Verdant Green," and this is one of four caricature illustrations of
the then novel art of photography, which Mr. Bradley did for _Punch_ in
the year 1853. We read just now how we are indirectly indebted to a Pope
[Pius IX.] for Sir John Tenniel's cartoons, and in connection with the
Rev. Edward Bradley's picture in No. 20, it may be noted that six
clergymen, at the least, have contributed to Mr. Punch's pages.

[Illustration: 21.--SUGGESTED BY THE MILITARY AND NAVAL REVIEWS HELD BY
THE QUEEN IN 1853.]

[Illustration: 22.--MR. PUNCH'S HIT AT JOHN BRIGHT AND THE PEACE
SOCIETY. 1853.]

No. 21 shows _Punch's_ "Medal for a Peace Assurance Society," a
pictorialization in 1853 of the still true old saying: "To secure peace
be prepared for war." An unhappy necessity, as some people think, but
without doubt the only practical way to assure peace, and, as usual, Mr.
Punch puts the thing in a nutshell with his two mottoes on the medal:
"Attention" and "Ready, aye Ready." Our "attention" and "readiness" of
1853 did not, however, keep us out of the Crimean War, which began in
the spring of 1854, despite the efforts of the Peace Society and of John
Bright, who are caricatured in No. 22. But modern authorities generally
believe that the Crimean War might have been prevented by a more
vigorous policy than that of Lord Aberdeen, whose Administration is
chiefly remembered by what is now thought to have been a gross blunder.
This No. 22 is also interesting as a forerunner of Mr. E. T. Reed's
remarkably witty modern designs, "Ready-made coats (-of-arms); or,
giving 'em fits."

[Illustration: 23.--A SINISTER INVITATION. 1854.]

"I wish the British Lion were dead outright," said John Bright, at
Edinburgh, in 1853, and Mr. Punch's comment on these words was the funny
"Improvement" of the Royal Arms depicted in No. 22.

[Illustration: 24.--A REFERENCE TO THE CRIMEAN WAR. BY LEECH, 1854.]

With a glance of sympathy at the belated traveller in No. 23, we pass to
No. 24, which shows the "Bursting of the Russian Bubble." This was
published in _Punch_, October 14th, 1854, after the Battle of the Alma
had been fought and badly lost by Russia and part of the Russian fleet
sunk at Sebastopol. Leech here shows very graphically the shattering of
the "irresistible power" and of the "unlimited means" which were to have
led the Emperor Nicholas I. of Russia to an easy victory over the
British and French allied forces.

[Illustration: 25.--IN THE EARLY DAYS OF PHOTOGRAPHY; BY "CUTHBERT
BEDE," 1853.]

No. 25 is another of the caricatures of photography in its early days by
"Cuthbert Bede," and very funny it is.

The next picture, No. 26, is one of _Punch's_ classics. It is that
well-known joke illustrating manners in the mining districts in the
early fifties:--

     _First Polite Native_: "Who's 'im, Bill?"

      _Second ditto_: "A stranger!"

      _First ditto_: "'Eave 'arf a brick at 'im."

By the way, speaking of Mr. Punch's jokes which have become classic, the
one which is the best known is the following:--

     Worthy of Attention.

      Advice to persons about to marry--

      Don't!

[Illustration: 26.--MINERS' MANNERS, 1854.]

This famous _mot_ appeared in _Punch's_ Almanac for 1845, and Mr.
Spielmann states that it was "based upon the ingenious wording of an
advertisement widely put forth by Eamonson & Co., well-known house
furnishers of the day."

[Illustration: 27.--PLEASANT FOR THE YOUTH. BY LEECH, 1853.]

[Illustration: 28.--A SUPPOSITITIOUS RUSSIAN ACCOUNT OF OUR DISTRESS
DURING THE CRIMEAN WAR, 1854.]

As regards the source of this famous joke, Mr. Spielmann, with
characteristic thoroughness, gives a long account of the many claims to
its paternity, and finally makes this statement:--

     ... chance has placed in my possession the authoritative
     information; and so far from any outsider, anonymous or declared,
     paid or unpaid, being concerned in it at all, the line simply came
     in the ordinary way from one of the Staff--from the man who, with
     Landells, had conceived _Punch_ and shaped it from the beginning,
     and had invented that first Almanac which had saved the paper's
     life--Henry Mayhew.

[Illustration: 29.--A STREET-ARAB OF 1854.]

No. 27 is a very clever drawing by Leech--they are all clever of course,
but this seems specially good. The youth [on Westminster Bridge--time,
two on a foggy morning] white with fear walks on perfectly straight
without taking any notice of the rough who asks: "Did you want to buy a
good razor?"--but he _is_ taking a lot of notice though. The youth walks
exactly like one does walk when a beggar pesters as he slouches
alongside just behind one, but here the frightened youth has good cause
indeed for the shaking fear that Leech has by some magic put into these
strokes of his pencil. The "Reduced Tradesman" too is exactly good--but
let the picture speak for itself, it wants no words of mine.

[Illustration: 30.--OUT OF THE RAIN. 1854.]

There is an amusing "Russian" account, in No. 28, of our troubles at
home during the Crimean War; and No. 29 shows a street-Arab asking the
Queen's coachman, "I say, Coachy, are you engaged?"

[Illustration: 31.--BY LEECH, 1854.]

Glancing at Nos. 30 and 31, we see in No. 32 Leech's picture of the
heroic charge at the Battle of Balaclava, on October 25, 1854, with Lord
Cardigan leading his famous Light Brigade of Cavalry. Here are Mr.
Punch's lines on this gallant charge, which was subsequently
immortalized by Tennyson in his "Charge of the Light Brigade":--


THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA.

[_Nine verses, on the battle generally, precede the lines below, which
refer to the charge of the Light Brigade, illustrated by Leech, in No.
32.--J. H. S._]

    But who is there, with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell,
    How our Light Brigade, true martyrs to the point of honour, fell!
    "'Twas sublime, but 'twas not warfare," that charge of woe and wrack,
    That led six hundred to the guns, and brought two hundred back!

    Enough! the order came to charge, and charge they did--like men:
    While shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.
    Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one drew bated breath,
    Unfaltering, unquestioning, they rode upon their death!

    Nor by five times their number of all arms could they be stayed;
    And with two lives for one of ours, e'en then, the Russians paid;
    Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,--
    Life was against those fearful odds,--from the grapple they withdrew.

    But still like wounded lions, their faces to the foe,
    More conquerors than conquered, they fell back stern and slow;
    With dinted arms and weary steeds--all bruised and soiled and worn--
    Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out this morn?
    Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answer ten,
    Oh, woe's me for such officers!--Oh, woe's me for such men!

    Whose was the blame? Name not his name, but rather seek to hide.
    If he live, leave him to conscience--to God, if he have died:
    But you, true band of heroes, you have done your duty well:
    Your country asks not, to what end; it knows but how you fell!

[Illustration: 32.--THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. BY LEECH, NOVEMBER
25, 1854.]

     NOTE.--In Part 1. of this article, the "Portrait of the Railway
     Panic," illustration No. 17, was erroneously ascribed to Doyle; the
     artist was William Newman, one of Mr. Punch's first recruits.

(_To be continued._)



_Miss Cayley's Adventures._

XII.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNPROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE.

By Grant Allen.


"Is Lady Georgina at home?"

The discreet man-servant in sober black clothes eyed me suspiciously.
"No, miss," he answered. "That is to say--no, ma'am. Her ladyship is
still at Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst's--the late Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst's, I
mean--in Park Lane North. You know the number, ma'am?"

"Yes, I know it," I replied, with a gasp; for this was indeed a triumph.
My one fear had been lest Lord Southminster should already have taken
possession--why, you will see hereafter; and it relieved me to learn
that Lady Georgina was still at hand to guard my husband's interests.
She had been living at the house, practically, since her brother's
death. I drove round with all speed, and flung myself into my dear old
lady's arms.

[Illustration: "I'VE HELD THE FORT BY MAIN FORCE."]

"Kiss me," I cried, flushed. "I am your niece!" But she knew it already,
for our movements had been fully reported by this time (with picturesque
additions) in the morning papers. Imagination, ill-developed in the
English race, seems to concentrate itself in the lower order of
journalists.

She kissed me on both cheeks with unwonted tenderness. "Lois," she
cried, with tears in her eyes, "you're a brick!" It was not exactly
poetical at such a moment, but from her it meant more than much gushing
phraseology.

"And you're here in possession!" I murmured.

The Cantankerous Old Lady nodded. She was in her element, I must admit.
She dearly loved a row--above all, a family row; but to be in the thick
of a family row, and to feel herself in the right, with the law against
her--that was joy such as Lady Georgina had seldom before experienced.
"Yes, dear," she burst out volubly, "I'm in possession, thank Heaven.
And what's more, they won't oust me without a legal process. I've been
here, off and on, you know, ever since poor dear Marmy died, looking
after things for Harold; and I shall look after them still, till Bertie
Southminster succeeds in ejecting me, which won't be easy. Oh, I've held
the fort by main force, I can tell you; held it like a Trojan. Bertie's
in a precious great hurry to move in, I can see; but I won't allow him.
He's been down here this morning, fatuously blustering, and trying to
carry the post by storm, with a couple of policemen."

"Policemen!" I cried. "To turn you out?"

"Yes, my dear, policemen: but (the Lord be praised) I was too much for
him. There are legal formalities to fulfil yet; and I won't budge an
inch, Lois, not one inch, my dear, till he's fulfilled every one of
them. Mark my words, child, that boy's up to some devilry."

"He is," I answered.

"Yes, he wouldn't be in such a rampaging hurry to get in--being as lazy
as he's empty-headed--takes after Gwendoline in that--if he hadn't some
excellent reason for wishing to take possession: and depend upon it, the
reason is that he wants to get hold of something or other that's
Harold's. But he sha'n't if I can help it; and thank my stars, I'm a
dour woman to reckon with. If he comes, he comes over my old bones,
child. I've been overhauling everything of Marmy's, I can tell you, to
checkmate the boy if I can; but I've found nothing yet, and till I've
satisfied myself on that point, I'll hold the fort still, if I have to
barricade that pasty-faced scoundrel of a nephew of mine out by piling
the furniture against the front door--I will as sure as my name's
Georgina Fawley!"

"I know you will, dear," I assented, kissing her, "and so I shall
venture to leave you, while I go out to institute another little
inquiry."

"What inquiry?"

I shook my head. "It's only a surmise," I said, hesitating, "I'll tell
you about it later. I've had time to think while I've been coming back
in the train, and I've thought of many things. Mount guard till I
return, and mind you don't let Lord Southminster have access to
anything."

"I'll shoot him first, dear." And I believe she meant it.

I drove on in the same cab to Harold's solicitor. There I laid my fresh
doubts at once before him. He rubbed his bony hands. "You've hit it!" he
cried, charmed. "My dear madam, you've hit it! I never did like that
will. I never did like the signatures, the witnesses, the look of it.
But what could I do? Mr. Tillington propounded it. Of course it wasn't
my business to go dead against my own client."

"Then you doubted Harold's honour, Mr. Hayes?" I cried, flushing.

[Illustration: "'NEVER!' HE ANSWERED. 'NEVER!'"]

"Never!" he answered. "Never! I felt sure there must be some mistake
somewhere, but not any trickery on--your husband's part. Now, _you_
supply the right clue. We must look into this, immediately."

He hurried round with me at once in the same cab to the court. The
incriminated will had been "impounded," as they call it; but, under
certain restrictions, and subject to the closest surveillance, I was
allowed to examine it with my husband's solicitor, before the eyes of
the authorities. I looked at it long with the naked eye and also with a
small pocket lens. The paper, as I had noted before, was the same kind
of foolscap as that which I had been in the habit of using at my office
in Florence; and the typewriting--was it mine? The longer I looked at
it, the more I doubted it.

After a careful examination I turned round to our solicitor. "Mr.
Hayes," I said, firmly, having arrived at my conclusion, "this is _not_
the document I type-wrote at Florence."

"How do you know?" he asked. "A different machine? Some small
peculiarity in the shape of the letters?"

"No, the rogue who typed this will was too cunning for that. He didn't
allow himself to be foiled by such a scholar's mate. It is written with
a Spread Eagle, the same sort of machine precisely as my own. I know the
type perfectly. But----" I hesitated.

"But what?"

"Well, it is difficult to explain. There is character in typewriting,
just as there is in handwriting, only, of course, not quite so much of
it. Every operator is liable to his own peculiar tricks and blunders. If
I had some of my own typewritten manuscript here to show you, I could
soon make that evident."

"I can easily believe it. Individuality runs through all we do, however
seemingly mechanical. But are the points of a sort that you could make
clear in court to the satisfaction of a jury?"

"I think so. Look here, for example. Certain letters get habitually
mixed up in typewriting; _c_ and _v_ stand next one another on the
keyboard of the machine, and the person who typed this draft sometimes
strikes a _c_ instead of a _v_, or _vice versâ_. I never do that. The
letters I tend to confuse are _s_ and _w_, or else _e_ and _r_, which
also come very near one another in the arbitrary arrangement. Besides,
when I type-wrote the original of this will, I made no errors at all; I
took such very great pains about it."

"And this person did make errors?"

"Yes; struck the wrong letter first, and then corrected it often by
striking another rather hard on top of it. See, this was a _v_ to begin
with, and he turned it into a _c_. Besides, the hand that wrote this
will is heavier than mine: it comes down _thump, thump, thump_, while
mine glides lightly. And the hyphens are used with a space between them,
and the character of the punctuation is not exactly as I make it."

"Still," Mr. Hayes objected, "we have nothing but your word. I'm afraid,
in such a case, we could never induce a jury to accept your unsupported
evidence."

"I don't want them to accept it," I answered. "I am looking this up for
my own satisfaction. I want to know, first, who wrote this will. And of
one thing I am quite clear: it is _not_ the document I drew up for Mr.
Ashurst. Just look at that _x_. The _x_ alone is conclusive. My
typewriter had the upper right-hand stroke of the small _x_ badly
formed, or broken, while this one is perfect. I remember it well,
because I used always to improve all my lower-case _x_'s with a pen when
I re-read and corrected. I see their dodge clearly now. It is a most
diabolical conspiracy. Instead of forging a will in Lord Southminster's
favour, they have substituted a forgery for the real will, and then
managed to make my poor Harold prove it."

"In that case, no doubt, they have destroyed the real one, the
original," Mr. Hayes put in.

"I don't think so," I answered, after a moment's deliberation. "From
what I know of Mr. Ashurst, I don't believe it is likely he would have
left his will about carelessly anywhere. He was a secretive man, fond of
mysteries and mystifications. He would be sure to conceal it. Besides,
Lady Georgina and Harold have been taking care of everything in the
house ever since he died."

"But," Mr. Hayes objected, "the forger of this document, supposing it to
be forged, must have had access to the original, since you say the terms
of the two are identical; only the signatures are forgeries. And if he
saw and copied it, why might he not also have destroyed it?"

A light flashed across me all at once. "The forger _did_ see the
original," I cried, "but not the fair copy. I have it all now! I detect
their trick! It comes back to me vividly! When I had finished typing the
copy at Florence from my first rough draft, which I had taken down on
the machine before Mr. Ashurst's eyes, I remember now that I threw the
original into the waste-paper basket. It must have been there that
evening when Higginson called and asked for the will to take it back to
Mr. Ashurst. He called for it, no doubt, hoping to open the packet
before he delivered it and make a copy of the document for this very
purpose. But I refused to let him have it. Before he saw me, however, he
had been left by himself for ten minutes in the office; for I remember
coming out to him and finding him there alone: and during that ten
minutes, being what he is, you may be sure he fished out the rough draft
and appropriated it!"

"That is more than likely," my solicitor nodded. "You are tracking him
to his lair. We shall have him in our power."

[Illustration: "WE SHALL HAVE HIM IN OUR POWER."]

I grew more and more excited as the whole cunning plot unravelled itself
mentally step by step before me. "He must then have gone to Lord
Southminster," I went on, "and told him of the legacy he expected from
Mr. Ashurst. It was five hundred pounds--a mere trifle to Higginson, who
plays for thousands. So he must have offered to arrange matters for Lord
Southminster if Southminster would consent to make good that sum and a
great deal more to him. That odious little cad told me himself on the
_Jumna_ they were engaged in pulling off 'a big _coup_' between them. He
thought then I would marry him, and that he would so secure my
connivance in his plans; but who would marry such a piece of moist clay?
Besides, I could never have taken anyone but Harold." Then another clue
came home to me. "Mr. Hayes," I cried, jumping at it, "Higginson, who
forged this will, never saw the real document itself at all; he saw only
the draft: for Mr. Ashurst altered one word _viva voce_ in the original
at the last moment, and I made a pencil note of it on my cuff at the
time: and see, it isn't here, though I inserted it in the final clean
copy of the will--the word 'especially.' It grows upon me more and more
each minute that the real instrument is hidden somewhere in Mr.
Ashurst's house--Harold's house--our house; and that _because_ it is
there, Lord Southminster is so indecently anxious to oust his aunt and
take instant possession."

"In that case," Mr. Hayes remarked, "we had better go back to Lady
Georgina without one minute's delay, and, while she still holds the
house, institute a thorough search for it."

No sooner said than done. We jumped again into our cab and started. As
we drove back, Mr. Hayes asked me where I thought we were most likely to
find it.

"In a secret drawer in Mr. Ashurst's desk," I answered, by a flash of
instinct, without a second's hesitation.

"How do you know there's a secret drawer?"

"I don't know it. I infer it from my general knowledge of Mr. Ashurst's
character. He loved secret drawers, ciphers, cryptograms,
mystery-mongering."

"But it was in that desk that your husband found the forged document,"
the lawyer objected.

Once more I had a flash of inspiration or intuition. "Because White, Mr.
Ashurst's valet, had it in readiness in his possession," I answered,
"and hid it there, in the most obvious and unconcealed place he could
find, as soon as the breath was out of his master's body. I remember now
Lord Southminster gave himself away to some extent in that matter. The
hateful little creature isn't really clever enough, for all his
cunning--and with Higginson to back him--to mix himself up in such
tricks as forgery. He told me at Aden he had had a telegram from
'Marmy's valet,' to report progress; and he received another, the night
Mr. Ashurst died, at Moozuffernuggar. Depend upon it, White was more or
less in this plot; Higginson left him the forged will when they started
for India; and as soon as Mr. Ashurst died White hid it where Harold was
bound to find it."

"If so," Mr. Hayes answered, "that's well; we have something to go upon.
The more of them, the better. There is safety in numbers--for the honest
folk. I never knew three rogues hold long together, especially when
threatened with a criminal prosecution. Their confederacy breaks down
before the chance of punishment. Each tries to screen himself by
betraying the others."

"Higginson was the soul of this plot," I went on. "Of that you may be
sure. He's a wily old fox, but we'll run him to earth yet. The more I
think of it, the more I feel sure, from what I know of Mr. Ashurst's
character, he would never have put that will in so exposed a place as
the one where Harold says he found it."

We drew up at the door of the disputed house just in time for the siege.
Mr. Hayes and I walked in. We found Lady Georgina face to face with Lord
Southminster. The opposing forces were still at the stage of
preliminaries of warfare.

"Look heah," the pea-green young man was observing, in his drawling
voice, as we entered; "it's no use your talking, deah Georgey. This
house is mine, and I won't have you meddling with it."

"This house is not yours, you odious little scamp," his aunt retorted,
raising her shrill voice some notes higher than usual; "and while I can
hold a stick you shall not come inside it."

"Very well, then; you drive me to hostilities, don't yah know. I'm sorry
to show disrespect to your grey hairs--if any--but I shall be obliged to
call in the police to eject yah."

"Call them in if you like," I answered, interposing between them. "Go
out and get them! Mr. Hayes, while he's gone, send for a carpenter to
break open the back of Mr. Ashurst's escritoire."

"A carpentah?" he cried, turning several degrees whiter than his pasty
wont. "What for? A carpentah?"

I spoke distinctly. "Because we have reason to believe Mr. Ashurst's
real will is concealed in this house in a secret drawer, and because the
keys were in the possession of White, whom we believe to be your
accomplice in this shallow conspiracy."

He gasped and looked alarmed. "No, you don't," he cried, stepping
briskly forward. "You don't, I tell yah! Break open Marmy's desk! Why,
hang it all, it's my property."

"We shall see about that after we've broken it open," I answered,
grimly. "Here, this screw-driver will do. The back's not strong. Now,
your help, Mr. Hayes--one, two, three; we can prise it apart between
us."

Lord Southminster rushed up and tried to prevent us. But Lady Georgina,
seizing both wrists, held him tight as in a vice with her dear skinny
old hands. He writhed and struggled, all in vain: he could not escape
her. "I've often spanked you, Bertie," she cried, "and if you attempt to
interfere, I'll spank you again; that's the long and the short of it!"

He broke from her and rushed out, to call the police, I believe, and
prevent our desecration of poor Marmy's property.

Inside the first shell were several locked drawers, and two or three
open ones, out of one of which Harold had fished the false will.
Instinct taught me somehow that the central drawer on the left-hand side
was the compartment behind which lay the secret receptacle. I prised it
apart and peered about inside it. Presently, I saw a slip-panel, which I
touched with one finger. The pigeon-hole flew open and disclosed a
narrow slit. I clutched at something--the will! Ho, victory! the will! I
raised it aloft with a wild shout. Not a doubt of it! The real, the
genuine document!

We turned it over and read it. It was my own fair copy, written at
Florence, and bearing all the small marks of authenticity about it which
I had pointed out to Mr. Hayes as wanting to the forged and impounded
document. Fortunately, Lady Georgina and four of the servants had stood
by throughout this scene, and had watched our demeanour, as well as Lord
Southminster's.

We turned next to the signatures. The principal one was clearly Mr.
Ashurst's--I knew it at once--his legible fat hand, "Marmaduke Courtney
Ashurst." And then the witnesses? They fairly took our breath away.

"Why, Higginson's sister isn't one of them at all," Mr. Hayes cried,
astonished.

A flush of remorse came over me. I saw it all now. I had misjudged that
poor woman! She had the misfortune to be a rogue's sister, but, as
Harold had said, was herself a most respectable and blameless person.
Higginson must have forged her name to the document; that was all; and
she had naturally sworn that she never signed it. He knew her honesty.
It was a master-stroke of rascality.

[Illustration: "VICTORY."]

"The other one isn't here, either," I exclaimed, growing more puzzled.
"The waiter at the hotel! Why, that's another forgery! Higginson must
have waited till the man was safely dead, and then used him similarly.
It was all very clever. Now, who are these people who really witnessed
it?"

"The first one," Mr. Hayes said, examining the handwriting, "is Sir
Roger Bland, the Dorsetshire baronet: he's dead, poor fellow; but he was
at Florence at the time, and I can answer for his signature. He was a
client of mine, and died at Mentone. The second is Captain Richards, of
the Mounted Police: he's living still, but he's away in South Africa."

"Then they risked his turning up?"

"If they knew who the real witnesses were at all--which is doubtful. You
see, as you say, they may have seen the rough draft only."

"Higginson would know," I answered. "He was with Mr. Ashurst at Florence
at the time, and he would take good care to keep a watch upon his
movements. In my belief, it was he who suggested this whole plot to Lord
Southminster."

"Of course it was," Lady Georgina put in. "That's absolutely certain.
Bertie's a rogue as well as a fool: but he's too great a fool to invent
a clever roguery, and too great a knave not to join in it foolishly when
anybody else takes the pains to invent it."

"And it _was_ a clever roguery," Mr. Hayes interposed. "An ordinary
rascal would have forged a later will in Lord Southminster's favour, and
run the risk of detection: Higginson had the acuteness to forge a will
exactly like the real one, and to let your husband bear the burden of
the forgery. It was as sagacious as it was ruthless."

"The next point," I said, "will be for us to prove it."

At that moment the bell rang, and one of the house-servants--all puzzled
by this conflict of interests--came in with a telegram, which he handed
me on a salver. I broke it open, without glancing at the envelope. Its
contents baffled me: "My address is Hotel Bristol, Paris; name as usual.
Send me a thousand pounds on account at once. I can't afford to wait. No
shillyshallying."

The message was unsigned. For a moment, I couldn't imagine who sent it,
or what it was driving at.

Then I took up the envelope. "Viscount Southminster, 24, Park Lane
North, London."

My heart gave a jump. I saw in a second that chance or Providence had
delivered the conspirators into my hands that day. The telegram was from
Higginson! I had opened it by accident.

It was obvious what had happened. Lord Southminster must have written to
him on the result of the trial, and told him he meant to take possession
of his uncle's house immediately. Higginson had acted on that hint, and
addressed his telegram where he thought it likely Lord Southminster
would receive it earliest. I had opened it in error, and that, too, was
fortunate, for even in dealing with such a pack of scoundrels, it would
never have occurred to me to violate somebody else's correspondence had
I not thought it was addressed to me. But having arrived at the truth
thus unintentionally, I had, of course, no scruples about making full
use of my information.

I showed the despatch at once to Lady Georgina and Mr. Hayes. They
recognised its importance. "What next?" I inquired. "Time presses. At
half-past three Harold comes up for examination at Bow Street."

Mr. Hayes was ready with an apt expedient. "Ring the bell for Mr.
Ashurst's valet," he said, quietly. "The moment has now arrived when we
can begin to set these conspirators by the ears. As soon as they learn
that we know all, they will be eager to inform upon one another."

I rang the bell. "Send up White," I said. "We wish to speak to him."

The valet stole up, self-accused, a timid, servile creature, rubbing his
hands nervously, and suspecting mischief. He was a rat in trouble. He
had thin brown hair, neatly brushed and plastered down, so as to make it
look still thinner, and his face was the average narrow cunning face of
the dishonest man-servant. It had an ounce of wile in it to a pound or
two of servility. He seemed just the sort of rogue meanly to join in an
underhand conspiracy, and then meanly to back out of it. You could read
at a glance that his principle in life was to save his own bacon.

He advanced, fumbling his hands all the time, and smiling and fawning.
"You wished to see me, sir?" he murmured, in a deprecatory voice,
looking sideways at Lady Georgina and me, but addressing the lawyer.

[Illustration: "YOU WISHED TO SEE ME, SIR?"]

"Yes, White, I wished to see you. I have a question to ask you. _Who_
put the forged will in Mr. Ashurst's desk? Was it you, or some other
person?"

The question terrified him. He changed colour and gasped. But he rubbed
his hands harder than ever and affected a sickly smile. "Oh, sir, how
should _I_ know, sir? _I_ had nothing to do with it. I suppose--it was
Mr. Tillington."

Our lawyer pounced upon him like a hawk on a titmouse. "Don't
prevaricate with me, sir," he said, sternly. "If you do, it may be worse
for you. This case has assumed quite another aspect. It is you and your
associates who will be placed in the dock, not Mr. Tillington. You had
better speak the truth; it is your one chance, I warn you. Lie to me,
and instead of calling you as a witness for our case, I shall include
you in the indictment."

White looked down uneasily at his shoes, and cowered. "Oh, sir, I don't
understand you."

"Yes, you do. You understand me, and you know I mean it. Wriggling is
useless; we intend to prosecute. We have unravelled this vile plot. We
know the whole truth. Higginson and Lord Southminster forged a will
between them----"

"Oh, sir, _not_ Lord Southminster! His lordship, I'm sure----"

Mr. Hayes's keen eye had noted the subtle shade of distinction and
admission. But he said nothing openly. "Well, then, Higginson forged,
and Lord Southminster accepted, a false will, which purported to be Mr.
Marmaduke Ashurst's. Now, follow me clearly. That will could not have
been put into the escritoire during Mr. Ashurst's life, for there would
have been risk of his discovering it. It must, therefore, have been put
there afterward. The moment he was dead, you, or somebody else with your
consent and connivance, slipped it into the escritoire; and you
afterwards showed Mr. Tillington the place where you had set it or seen
it set, leading him to believe it was Mr. Ashurst's will, and so
involved him in all this trouble. Note that that was a felonious act. We
accuse you of felony. Do you mean to confess, and give evidence on our
behalf, or will you force me to send for a policeman to arrest you?"

The cur hesitated still. "Oh, sir," drawing back, and fumbling his hands
on his breast, "you don't mean it."

Mr. Hayes was prompt. "Hesslegrave, go for a policeman."

That curt sentence brought the rogue on his marrow-bones at once. He
clasped his hands and debated inwardly. "If I tell you all I know," he
said, at last, looking about him with an air of abject terror, as if he
thought Lord Southminster or Higginson would hear him, "will you promise
not to prosecute me?" His tone became insinuating. "For a hundred
pounds, I could find the real will for you. You'd better close with me.
To-day is the last chance. As soon as his lordship comes in, he'll hunt
it up and destroy it."

I flourished it before him, and pointed with one hand to the broken
desk, which he had not yet observed in his craven agitation.

"We do not need your aid," I answered. "We have found the will,
ourselves. Thanks to Lady Georgina, it is safe till this minute."

"And to me," he put in, cringing, and trying, after his kind, to curry
favour with the winners at the last moment. "It's all _my_ doing, my
lady! I wouldn't destroy it. His lordship offered me a hundred pounds
more to break open the back of the desk at night, while your ladyship
was asleep, and burn the thing quietly. But I told him he might do his
own dirty work if he wanted it done. It wasn't good enough while your
ladyship was here in possession. Besides, I wanted the right will
preserved, for I thought things might turn up so; and I wouldn't stand
by and see a gentleman like Mr. Tillington, as has always behaved well
to me, deprived of his inheritance."

"Which is why you conspired with Lord Southminster to rob him of it, and
to send him to prison for Higginson's crime," I interposed, calmly.

"Then you confess you put the forged will there?" Mr. Hayes said,
getting to business.

White looked about him helplessly. He missed his headpiece, the
instigator of the plot. "Well, it was like this, my lady," he began,
turning to Lady Georgina, and wriggling to gain time. "You see, his
lordship and Mr. Higginson----" he twirled his thumbs and tried to
invent something plausible.

Lady Georgina swooped. "No rigmarole!" she said, sharply. "Do you
confess you put it there or do you not--reptile?" Her vehemence startled
him.

"Yes, I confess I put it there," he said at last, blinking. "As soon as
the breath was out of Mr. Ashurst's body I put it there." He began to
whimper. "I'm a poor man with a wife and family, sir," he went on,
"though in Mr. Ashurst's time I always kep' that quiet; and his lordship
offered to pay me well for the job; and when you're paid well for a job
yourself, sir----."

Mr. Hayes waved him off with one imperious hand. "Sit down in the corner
there, man, and don't move or utter another word," he said, sternly,
"until I order you. You will be in time still for me to produce at Bow
Street."

Just at that moment, Lord Southminster swaggered back, accompanied by a
couple of unwilling policemen. "Oh, I say," he cried, bursting in and
staring around him, jubilant. "Look heah, Georgey, _are_ you going
quietly, or must I ask these coppahs to evict you?" He was wreathed in
smiles now, and had evidently been fortifying himself with brandies and
soda.

Lady Georgina rose in her wrath. "Yes, I'll go if you wish it, Bertie,"
she answered, with calm irony. "I'll leave the house as soon as you
like--for the present--till we come back again with Harold and _his_
policemen to evict you. This house is Harold's. Your game is played,
boy." She spoke slowly. "We have found the other will--we have
discovered Higginson's present address in Paris--and we know from White
how he and you arranged this little conspiracy."

She rapped out each clause in this last accusing sentence with
deliberate effect, like so many pistol-shots. Each bullet hit home. The
pea-green young man, drawing back and staring, stroked his shadowy
moustache with feeble fingers in undisguised astonishment. Then he
dropped into a chair and fixed his gaze blankly on Lady Georgina. "Well,
this is a fair knock-out," he ejaculated, fatuously disconcerted. "I
wish Higginson was heah. I really don't quite know what to do without
him. That fellah had squared it all up so neatly, don't yah know, that I
thought there couldn't be any sort of hitch in the proceedings."

[Illustration: "'WELL, THIS IS A FAIR KNOCK-OUT,' HE EJACULATED."]

"You reckoned without Lois," Lady Georgina said, calmly.

"Ah, Miss Cayley--that's true. I mean, Mrs. Tillington. Yaas, yaas, I
know, she's a doosid clevah person for a woman, now isn't she?"

It was impossible to take this flabby creature seriously, even as a
criminal. Lady Georgina's lips relaxed. "Doosid clever" she admitted,
looking at me almost tenderly.

"But not quite so clevah, don't yah know, as Higginson!"

"There you make your blooming little erraw," Mr. Hayes burst in,
adopting one of Lord Southminster's favourite witticisms--the sort of
witticism that improves, like poetry, by frequent repetition.
"Policemen, you may go into the next room and wait: this is a family
affair; we have no immediate need of you."

"Oh, certainly," Lord Southminster echoed, much relieved. "Very propah
sentiment! Most undesirable that the constables should mix themselves up
in a family mattah like this. Not the place for inferiahs!"

"Then why introduce them?" Lady Georgina burst out, turning on him.

He smiled his fatuous smile. "That's just what I say," he answered. "Why
the jooce introduce them? But don't snap my head off!"

The policemen withdrew respectfully, glad to be relieved of this
unpleasant business, where they could gain no credit, and might possibly
involve themselves in a charge of assault. Lord Southminster rose with a
benevolent grin, and looked about him pleasantly. The brandies and soda
had endowed him with irrepressible cheerfulness.

"Well?" Lady Georgina murmured.

"Well, I think I'll leave now, Georgey. You've trumped my ace, yah know.
Nasty trick of White to go and round on a fellah. I don't like the turn
this business is taking. Seems to me, the only way I have left to get
out of it is--to turn Queen's evidence."

Lady Georgina planted herself firmly against the door. "Bertie," she
cried, "no, you don't--not till we've got what we want out of you!"

He gazed at her blandly. His face broke once more into an imbecile
smile. "You were always a rough 'un, Georgey. Your hand did sting! Well,
what do you want now? We've each played our cards, and you needn't cut
up rusty over it--especially when you're winning! Hang it all, I wish I
had Higginson heah to tackle you!"

"If you go to see the Treasury people, or the Solicitor-General, or the
Public Prosecutor, or whoever else it may be," Lady Georgina said,
stoutly, "Mr. Hayes must go with you. We've trumped your ace, as you
say, and we mean to take advantage of it. And then you must trundle
yourself down to Bow Street afterwards, confess the whole truth, and set
Harold at liberty."

"Oh, I say now, Georgey! The whole truth! the whole blooming truth!
That's really what I call humiliating a fellah!"

"If you don't, we arrest you this minute--fourteen years' imprisonment!"

"Fourteen yeahs?" He wiped his forehead. "Oh, I say. How doosid
uncomfortable. I was nevah much good at doing anything by the sweat of
my brow. I ought to have lived in the Garden of Eden. Georgey, you're
hard on a chap when he's down on his luck. It would be confounded cruel
to send me to fourteen yeahs at Portland."

"You would have sent my husband to it," I broke in, angrily, confronting
him.

"What? You too, Miss Cayley?--I mean Mrs. Tillington. Don't look at me
like that. Tigahs aren't in it."

His jauntiness disarmed us. However wicked he might be, one felt it
would be ridiculous to imprison this schoolboy. A sound flogging and a
month's deprivation of wine and cigarettes was the obvious punishment
designed for him by nature.

"You must go down to the police-court and confess this whole
conspiracy," Lady Georgina went on after a pause, as sternly as she was
able. "I prefer, if we can, to save the family--even you, Bertie. But I
can't any longer save the family honour--I can only save Harold's. You
must help me to do that; and then, you must give me your solemn
promise--in writing--to leave England for ever, and go to live in South
Africa."

He stroked the invisible moustache more nervously than before. That
penalty came home to him. "What, leave England for evah?
Newmarket--Ascot--the club--the music-halls!"

"Or fourteen years' imprisonment!"

"Georgey, you spank as hard as evah!"

"Decide at once, or we arrest you!"

He glanced about him feebly. I could see he was longing for his lost
confederate. "Well, I'll go," he said at last, sobering down; "and your
solicitaw can trot round with me. I'll do all that you wish, though I
call it most unfriendly. Hang it all, fourteen yeahs would be so beastly
unpleasant!"

We drove forthwith to the proper authorities, who, on hearing the facts,
at once arranged to accept Lord Southminster and White as Queen's
evidence, neither being the actual forger. We also telegraphed to Paris
to have Higginson arrested, Lord Southminster giving us up his assumed
name with the utmost cheerfulness, and without one moment's compunction.
Mr. Hayes was quite right: each conspirator was only too ready to save
himself by betraying his fellows. Then we drove on to Bow Street (Lord
Southminster consoling himself with a cigarette on the way), just in
time for Harold's case, which was to be taken, by special arrangement,
at 3.30.

A very few minutes sufficed to turn the tables completely on the
conspirators. Harold was discharged, and a warrant was issued for the
arrest of Higginson, the actual forger. He had drawn up the false will
and signed it with Mr. Ashurst's name, after which he had presented it
for Lord Southminster's approval. The pea-green young man told his tale
with engaging frankness. "Bertie's a simple Simon," Lady Georgina
commented to me; "but he's also a rogue; and Higginson saw his way to
make excellent capital of him in both capacities--first use him as a
catspaw, and then blackmail him."

On the steps of the police-court, as we emerged triumphant, Lord
Southminster met us--still radiant as ever. He seemed wholly unaware of
the depths of his iniquity: a fresh dose of brandy had restored his
composure. "Look heah," he said, "Harold, your wife has bested me! Jolly
good thing for you that you managed to get hold of such a clevah woman!
If you hadn't, deah boy, you'd have found yourself in Queeah Street!
But, I say, Lois--I call yah Lois because you're my cousin now, yah
know--you were backing the wrong man aftah all, as I told yah. For if
you'd backed _me_, all this wouldn't have come out; you'd have got the
tin and been a countess as well, aftah the governah's dead and gone,
don't yah see. You'd have landed the double event. So you'd have pulled
off a bettah thing for yourself in the end, as I said, if you'd laid
your bottom dollah on me for winnah!"

[Illustration: "HAROLD, YOUR WIFE HAS BESTED ME."]

Higginson is now doing fourteen years at Portland; Harold and I are
happy in the sweetest place in Gloucestershire; and Lord Southminster,
blissfully unaware of the contempt with which the rest of the world
regards him, is shooting big game among his "boys" in South Africa.
Indeed, he bears so little malice that he sent us a present of a trophy
of horns for our hall last winter.



_A Town in the Tree-Tops._

By Ellsworth Douglass.


Everybody at the _pension_ had heard it, but Bayly has a circumstantial
and picturesque manner of narration, which gives old stories a new
interest.

"Wasn't it your American millionaire, Mr. Waldorf Astor," he said,
addressing me, "who made a wager that he would comfortably seat
thirty-two guests around the stump of a California big tree? And didn't
he do it? Brought a slice off the tree-stump more than 6,000 miles, and
had a grand dinner on it in London?"

"I must say I like your big tree stories better than your big tree
wines," put in Gaillet, a dashing young Frenchman, who spoke English
fluently; "but I don't think all that is so wonderful. I can show you a
place, within less than an hour of Paris, where more than thirty-two
persons can dine around comfortable tables high up in the branches of a
single tree!"

"That sounds interesting, Gaillet; to me it smells like 'good copy.'
Eating up in trees might make some novel photographs; what do you say,
Bayly?"

I purposely touched the young Englishman on his hobby. He was an amateur
photographer of the virulent and persistent type, and had recently
infected me with the contagion.

"If the sun looks promising we will ride down there on our wheels
to-morrow and have a look at them," he replied. "Can you go with us and
show us the way, Gaillet?"

And so, early the next morning, we went. It was a delightful two hours
on the wheel in early October. Just as the country began to grow more
broken and interesting, and chestnut trees began to strew the paths with
prickly burrs, we wheeled up a slight hill into a quaint village, and
dismounting, Gaillet exclaimed:--

"Here we are at home with Robinson Crusoe!"

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE VILLAGE OF ROBINSON. [_L.
Bayly._]

Had he told me that Robinson Crusoe really lived in the flesh and, after
returning from his lonely adventures, founded this little village, and
here attempted to bring into fashion his old habit of eating in the
trees, I would have believed it. For here is the village bearing his
name to this day; here also, as seen in our first photograph, is his
effigy in the principal street, under his rough, thatched umbrella, and
with his parrot seated upon his shoulder, as every schoolboy knows him.
Here, likewise, are a number of great trees, with two or three rustic
dining-huts built far up on the limbs of each; and, as Gaillet assured
us, here, for the last fifty years, men and their families have eaten in
the trees like squirrels.

As Bayly prepared to take the first photograph, he noticed that the
highest dining-stage in the tip-top of the biggest tree had curtains
drawn around it, which he asked to have pulled back. A waiter informed
him that this rustic hut was engaged by a party.

"Yes, I telephoned down yesterday afternoon, and reserved it for us,"
put in Gaillet. "I also ordered the _déjeuner_. I hope you will like it:
sole _au gratin_ and _chateaubriand aux champignons_."

At that moment the wind left the leaves and boughs at rest, and Bayly
snapped the shutter, regardless of the curtains. I made reply to
Gaillet:--

"I never heard of Crusoe's fare being quite so pretentious as all that.
He must have learned cookery since he came to France."

"It is M. Gueusquin _aîné_ who claims the credit for applying the tree
idea to modern dining. Doubtless he does it better than Crusoe could
have done. At any rate, he has made a large fortune out of the idea--far
more than Defoe made out of his story. It was just fifty years ago,"
continued Gaillet, "that the father of the present proprietor here was
struck with the clever idea, bought this picturesque plot of ground with
large trees on it, and built rustic dining-rooms on the strongest
branches. He called his lonely little country place Robinson, after the
Swiss family which figures in the French version of the romance, and
invited the patronage of the fun-loving Parisians who delight in
fanciful ideas of ibis sort. At that time it was a long coach ride from
the city, but it soon became the popular _rendezvous_ for a day's
outing. Since then Kings have dined here; thousands of wedding parties
have seen life rosy from the tree-tops, and nearly every Parisian boy
who reads the story of Robinson's adventures is taken to this quaint
little village as a realistic sequel. M. Gueusquin's success tempted
others into similar ventures here, so that now nearly every large tree
is utilized, and Robinson has grown into quite a respectable village,
whose name will always be associated in the French mind with breezy
dinners, family picnics, donkey-riding, bracing country air, and
charming scenery. The Ligne de Sceaux long ago built a branch line
terminating here, and a journey of forty minutes by train brings one
down from the Luxembourg Station in Paris."

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE LARGEST ROBINSON TREE. [_L.
Bayly._]

Bayly evidently cared little for these facts, for he had busied himself
getting a focus on the largest tree, which M. Gueusquin proudly
advertises as "_Le Vrai Arbre de Robinson_." You may see the result in
the accompanying photograph. Its massive trunk has not much increased in
size since the stairway was built around it half a century ago. There is
one thatched hut built at the first branch of the tree; another well out
on a higher limb on the other side of the trunk; and the third and most
desirable in the very tip-top, from which one sees an enchanting view of
all the pretty country lying towards Paris. A stairway connects all
these rustic huts with each other, and in the busy season a waiter is
stationed at each dining stage, and the wines and cooked foods are
hauled up to him from the ground by means of a rope and basket running
to each stage, as will be seen in most of the photographs. At wedding
parties these same baskets have more than once served to lower away some
bibulous guest whose frequent toasts to the bride have ended in a
decided disinclination to attempt the giddy and precipitous stairway.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] LARGE DINING-ROOM BETWEEN TWO TREES.
[_Ellsworth Douglass._]

Bayly went next to inspect a larger and more modern dining-room built
between two young trees, and I have caught him on the stairway in the
photograph above. But I was anxious to climb to some height and get a
good view of the nest in the tree-top where we were to breakfast. I
heard someone laughing at my first futile attempts at climbing, but at
last I gained a point of vantage which gave a view over the tops of the
trees to the indefinite stretch of pretty valley beyond.

While breakfast was preparing we visited the neighbouring inns to
photograph the trees. Just across the road we found one which claims the
distinction of being the tallest in Robinson. As will be seen in the
photograph, it has three dining stages one directly above another, so
that the same basket may serve them all. A waiter can be seen in the top
stage of this thrifty, sturdy chestnut, in which many generations may
yet dine.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] A THREE-STORY TREE. [_L. Bayly._]

Farther down the road is a place called the Maison Robin, possibly in
the hope that the kind public will believe that the "true Robinson" was
this Robin's son. Here is the "Great Chestnut," which truly looks as if
it might antedate Robinson Crusoe by centuries. Yet it still showers its
plenteous fruit upon the ground, and as we kicked about its bushels of
bursting burrs we wondered how "marron glacé" could be so expensive in
Paris. The next photograph shows how the walks were sprinkled with ripe
nuts; and also some pretty samples of the vine or ivy-covered _bosquets_
for those who prefer to dine on _terra firma_. These are numerous, and
charmingly pretty in the gardens of most of the inns here.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE GREAT CHESTNUT. [_Ellsworth
Douglass._]

Another great feature of Robinson is the family picnic, but the French
love ease and comfort too much to dine on the grass under the trees.
They prefer to sit properly at a table, and many of the inns recognise
the right of visitors to bring their own provisions, and are content
with serving them wines, coffee, and the like. When you go to Robinson,
you are sure to recognise this place at the turning of the road before
reaching the great trees.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] NEAR VIEW OF A HUT ON A BRANCH. [_L.
Bayly._]

I returned to our second stage with Gaillet, and found the table laid,
but not a scrap of food to be seen. The waiter was trotting up the
stairs with a heavily-loaded tray, on which was an enormous plate of
sole _au gratin_. Gaillet remarked that it looked as if the people in
the top hut had not only captured our place, but our breakfast as well.
He begged the waiter to hurry our order, and then asked me what I
thought might be going on up there behind the curtains. It was very near
us, and perhaps for this reason the young ladies refrained from audible
conversation. They only whispered among themselves and laughed at
intervals, but Gaillet thought he surprised one or two attempts to peep
around the curtain at us. I was ravenously hungry, and when the waiter
next went past up to the top story I seized a yard of bread from his
tray. Looking down at Bayly, who was focusing below, I cried out:
"Lancelot, if you are hungry, get a photograph of the only morsel of
food I have been able to secure before I devour it!" And our last
illustration bears witness that he did so. This detailed view of a
thatched, rustic hut perched upon a big limb finished his work.



Aunt Sarah's Brooch.

[Illustration]

BY ARTHUR MORRISON


I am afraid to face my Aunt Sarah. Though how I am to get out of it I
don't quite see.

At any rate, I will never again undertake the work of a private
detective; though that would have been a more useful resolve a fortnight
ago. The mischief is done now.

The main bitterness lies in the reflection that it is all Aunt Sarah's
fault. Such a muddlesome old----but, there, losing my temper won't
mend it. A few weeks ago I was Clement Simpson, with very considerable
expectations from my Aunt Sarah and no particular troubles on my mind,
and I was engaged to my cousin, Honoria Prescott. Now I am still Clement
Simpson (although sometimes I almost doubt even that), but my
expectations from my Aunt Sarah are of the most uncomfortable, and my
troubles overwhelm me. As for Honoria Prescott----but read and learn
it all.

My aunt is a maiden lady of sixty-five, though there is something about
her appearance at variance with the popular notion of a spinster,
insomuch that it is the way of tradesmen to speak of her as "Mrs."
Simpson, and to send their little bills thus addressed. She is a very
positive old lady, and she measures, I should judge, about five feet
round the waist. She is constantly attended by a doctor, and from time
to time, in her sadder moments, it has been her habit to assure me that
she shall not live long, and that very soon I shall find myself well
provided for; though for an invalid she always ate rather well: about as
much, I should judge, as a fairly healthy navvy. She had a great idea of
her importance in the family--in fact, she _was_ important--and she
had--has now, indeed--a way of directing the movements of all its
members, who submit with a becoming humility. It is well to submit
humbly to the caprice of a rich elderly aunt, and it has always been my
own practice. It was because of Aunt Sarah's autocratic reign in the
family that Honoria Prescott and I refrained from telling her of our
engagement; for Aunt Sarah had conceived vast matrimonial ambitions on
behalf of each of us. We were each to make an exceedingly good marriage;
there was even a suggestion of a title for Honoria, though what title,
and how it was to be captured, I never heard. And for me, I understood
there would be nothing less than a brewer's daughter, or even a
company-promoter's. And so we feared that Aunt Sarah might look upon a
union between us not only as a flat defiance of her wishes, but as a
deplorable _mésalliance_ on both sides. So, for the time the engagement
lasted (not very long, alas!), we feared to reveal it. Now there is no
engagement to reveal. But this is anticipating.

Aunt Sarah was very fussy about her jewels. In perpetual apprehension
lest they might be stolen, she carried them with her whenever she took a
change of air (and she had a good many such changes), while in her own
house she kept them in some profoundly secret hiding-place. I have an
idea that it was under a removable board in the floor of her bedroom. Of
course, we all professed to share Aunt Sarah's solicitude, and it had
been customary in the family, from times beyond my knowledge, to greet
her first with inquiries as to her own health, and next with hopes for
the safety of the jewels. But, as a matter of fact, they were not vastly
valuable things; probably they were worth more than the case they were
kept in, but not very much. Aunt Sarah never wore them--even she would
not go as far as that. They were nothing but a small heap of clumsy old
brooches, ear-rings, and buckles, with one or two very long, thin
watch-chains, and certain mourning and signet rings belonging to
departed members of the family who had flourished (or not) in the early
part of the century. There were no big diamonds among them--scarcely any
diamonds at all, in fact; but the garnets and cats' eyes strove to make
good in size and ugliness of setting what they lacked in mere market
worth. Chief of all the "jewels," and most precious of Aunt Sarah's
possessions, was a big amethyst brooch, with a pane of glass let in
behind, inclosing a lock of the reddest hair I have ever seen. It was
the hair of Aunt Sarah's own uncle Joseph, the most distinguished member
of the family, who had written three five-act tragedies, and dedicated
them all, one after another, to George the Fourth. Joseph's initials
appeared on the frame of the brooch behind--"J." on one side and "S." on
the other. It was, on the whole, perhaps, the ugliest and clumsiest of
all Aunt Sarah's jewels, and I never saw anything else like it anywhere,
except one; and that, singularly enough, was an exact
duplicate--barring, of course, the hair and the inscription--in a very
mouldy shop in Soho, where all sorts of hopelessly out-of-date rings and
brooches and chains hung for sale. It was the way of the shopkeeper to
ticket these gloomy odds and ends with cheerful inscriptions, such as
"Antique, 17s. 6d.," "Real Gold, £1 5s.," "Quaint, £2 2s. 6d." But even
he could find no more promising adjective for the hideous brooch than
"massive"--which was quite true. He wanted £3 for the thing when I first
saw it, and it slowly declined, by half-a-crown at a time, to £1 15s.,
and then it vanished altogether. I wondered at the time what misguided
person could have bought it; but I learnt afterward that the shopkeeper
had lost heart, and used the window space for something else.

[Illustration: "A SECRET HIDING-PLACE."]

Aunt Sarah had been for six weeks at a "Hydropathic Establishment" at
Malvern. On the day fixed for her return, I left a very agreeable tennis
party for the purpose of meeting her at the station, as was dutiful and
proper. First I called at her house, to learn the exact time at which
the train was expected at Paddington. It was rather sooner than I had
supposed, so I hurried to find a cab, and urged the driver to drive his
best. I am never lucky with cabs, however--nor, I begin to think, with
anything else--and the horse, with all the cabman's efforts, never got
beyond a sort of tumultuous shamble; and so I missed Aunt Sarah at
Paddington. It was very annoying, and I feared she might take it ill,
because she never made allowances for anybody's misfortunes but her own.
However, I turned about and cabbed it back as fast as I could. She had
been home nearly half an hour when I arrived, and was drinking her third
or fourth cup of tea. She was not ill-tempered, on the whole, and she
received my explanations with a fairly good grace. She had been a little
better, she thought, during her stay at Malvern, but feared that her
health could make no permanent improvement. And indeed there seemed very
little room for improvement in Aunt Sarah's bodily condition, and no
more room at all in her clothes. Then, in the regular manner, I inquired
as to the well-being of the jewels.

[Illustration: "SHE RECEIVED MY EXPLANATIONS WITH A FAIRLY GOOD GRACE."]

The jewels, it seemed, were all right. Aunt Sarah had seen to that. She
had herself stowed the case at the bottom of her biggest and strongest
trunk, which was now upstairs, partly unpacked. My question reminded
her, and she rose at once, to transfer her valuables to their permanent
hiding-place.

I heard Aunt Sarah going upstairs with a groan at every step, each groan
answered by a loud creak from the woodwork. Then for awhile there was
silence, and I walked to the French window to look out on the lawn and
the carriage-drive. But as I looked, suddenly there came a dismal yell
from above, followed by many shrieks.

We--myself and the servants--found Aunt Sarah seated on a miscellaneous
heap of clothes by the side of her big trunk, a picture of calamity.
"Gone!" she ejaculated. "Stolen! All my jewels! Stop thief! Catch 'em!
My jewel-case!"

There was no doubt about it, it seemed. The case had been at the bottom
of the big trunk--Aunt Sarah had put it there herself--and now it was
gone. The trunk had been locked and tightly corded at Malvern, and it
had been opened by Aunt Sarah's maid as soon as it had been set down
where it now stood. But now the jewel-case was gone, and Aunt Sarah
made such a disturbance as might be expected from the Constable of the
Tower if he suddenly learned that the Crown of England was gone missing.

"Clement!" said my aunt, when she rose to her feet, after sending for
the police; "go, Clement, and find my jewels. I rely on your sagacity.
The police are always such fools. But you--you I can depend upon. Bring
the jewels back, my dear, and you will never regret it, I promise you.
At least bring back the brooch--the brooch with Uncle Joseph's hair and
initials. That I _must_ have, Clement!" And here Aunt Sarah grew quite
impressive--almost noble. "Clement, I rely entirely on you. I forbid you
to come into my presence again without that brooch! Find it, and you
will be rewarded to the utmost of my power!"

Nevertheless, as I have said, Aunt Sarah took care to call in the
police.

Now what was I to do? Of course, I must make an effort to satisfy Aunt
Sarah; but how? The thing was absurd enough, and personally, I was in
little grief at the loss, but Aunt Sarah must be propitiated at any
cost. I was to go and find the jewels, or at least the brooch, and the
whole world was before me wherein to search. I was confused, not to say
dazed. I stood on the pavement outside Aunt Sarah's gate, and I tried to
remember what the detectives I had read of did in such circumstances as
these.

What they did, of course, was to find a clue--instantly and upon the
spot. I stared blankly up and down the street--it was a quiet road in
Belsize Park--but I could see nothing that looked like a clue. Perhaps
the commonest sort of clue was footprints. But the weather was fine and
dry, and the clean, hard pavement was without a mark of any kind.
Besides, I had a feeling that footprints as a clue were a little
threadbare and out of date; they were so obvious--so "otiose" as I have
heard it called. No respectable novelist would depend on footprints
alone, nowadays. Then there was a piece of the thief's coat, torn off by
a sharp railing, or by a broken bottle on top of a wall; and there was
also a lost button. I remembered that many excellent detective stories
had been brought to breathless and triumphant terminations by the aid of
one or other of these clues. I looked carefully along the line of broken
glass that defended the top of Aunt Sarah's outer wall, but not a rag,
not a shred, fluttered there. I tried to remember something else, and as
I gazed thoughtfully downward, my eye was attracted by some small black
object lying on the pavement by the gate. I stooped--and behold, it
_was_ a button! A trouser button, by all that's lucky!

[Illustration: "BEHOLD, IT WAS A BUTTON."]

I snatched it eagerly, and read the name stamped thereon, "J. Pullinger,
London." I knew the name--indeed it was the name of my own tailor. The
scent would seem to be growing stronger. But at that moment I grew
conscious of an uneasy subsidence of my right trouser-leg. Hastily
clapping my hand under my waistcoat, I found a loose brace-strap, and
then realized that I had merely picked up my own button. I went home.

I spent the evening in fruitless brain-cudgelling. My brightest idea
(which came about midnight) was to go back to Aunt Sarah's the first
thing in the morning. True, she had forbidden me to come into her
presence without that brooch, but that, I felt, must be regarded rather
as a burst of rhetoric than as a serious prohibition. Besides, the case
might have been stolen by one of her own servants; and, moreover, if I
wanted a clue, clearly I must begin my search at the very spot where the
theft had been committed. She couldn't object to _that_, anyhow.

So in the morning I went. Aunt Sarah seemed to have forgotten her order
that I must not approach her without the brooch, but she seemed hurt to
find I had not brought it. She had had no sleep all night, she said. She
thought I ought to have discovered the thieves before she went to bed;
but at any rate, she expected I would do it to-day. I said I would
certainly do my best, and I fear I found it necessary to invent a
somewhat exciting story of my adventures of the previous evening in
search of the brooch.

There was a plain-clothes constable, it seemed, still about the place,
and the police had searched all the servants' boxes, without discovering
anything. Their theory, it seemed, was that some thief must have
secreted himself about the garden, entered by a French window soon after
Aunt Sarah's arrival, made his way to the bedroom--which would be easy,
for there were two staircases--and then made off with the case; and,
indeed, Aunt Sarah declared that the clothes in the box were much
disturbed when she discovered her loss. The police spoke mysteriously
about "a clue," but would not say what it was--which, no doubt, would be
unprofessional.

All the servants had been closely questioned, and the detective now in
the place wished to ask me if I had observed anything unusual. I hadn't,
and I told him so. Had I noticed whether any of the French windows were
open when I called the first time? No, I hadn't noticed. I didn't happen
to have called more than once before my aunt had come in? No, I didn't.
Which way had I entered the house when I came back after my aunt's
arrival? By the front door, in the usual way. Was the front door open?
Yes, I remembered that it was--probably left open by forgetfulness of
the servants after the luggage had been brought in; so that I had come
in without knocking or ringing. And he asked other questions which I
have forgotten. I did not feel hopeful of his success, although he
seemed so very sagacious; he spoke with an air of already knowing all
about it, but I doubted. All my experience of newspaper reports told me
that when the police spoke mysteriously of "a clue," that case might as
well be given up at once, to save trouble. That seemed also to be Aunt
Sarah's opinion. Before I left she confided to me that she didn't
believe in the police a bit; she was sure that they were only staring
about and asking questions to make a show of doing something, and that
it would end in no result after all. All the more, she said, must she
rely on me. The punishment of the thief was altogether a secondary
matter; what she wanted were the jewels--or, as a minimum, the brooch
with Uncle Joseph's hair in it. She would be glad if I would report
progress to her during my search, but whether I did or not, she must
insist on my recovering the property. I was a grown man now, she pointed
out, and, with my intelligence, ought to be easily equal to such a small
thing; certainly more so than mere ordinary ignorant policemen. Of those
she gave up all hope. She would not mind if I took a day or two over it,
but she would prefer me to find the brooch at once.

I felt a little desperate when I left Aunt Sarah. I _must_ do something.
She had made up her mind that I was to recover the trinkets, or at least
the brooch, and if I failed her she would cut me off, I knew. There was
a fellow called Finch, secretary to the Society for the Dissemination of
Moral Literature among the Esquimaux, who had been very friendly with
her of late, and although I had no especial grudge against the Esquimaux
as a nation, I had a strong objection to seeing Aunt Sarah's fortune go
to provide them with moral literature, or Mr. Finch with his salary--the
latter being, I had heard, the main object of the society. I spent the
day in fruitless cogitation and blank staring into pawnshop windows, in
the remote hope of seeing Aunt Sarah's brooch exposed for sale. And on
the following morning I went back to Aunt Sarah.

I confess I had a tale prepared to account for my time--a tale, perhaps,
not strictly true in all its details. But what was I to do to satisfy
such a terrible old lady? I must say I think it was a very interesting
sort of tale, with plenty of thieves' kitchens and receivers' dens in
it, and, on the whole, it went down very well, although I could see that
Aunt Sarah's good opinion of me was in danger for lack of tangible
result to my adventures. The police, she said, had given the case up
altogether and gone away. They reported, finally, that there was no
clue, and that they could do nothing. I came away, feeling a good deal
of sympathy with the police.

And then the wicked thought came--the wicked thought that has caused all
the trouble. Plainly, the jewels were gone irrecoverably--did not the
police admit it? Aunt Sarah would never see them again, and I should be
cut out of her will--unless I brought her, at least, that hideous old
brooch. The brooch by this time was probably in the melting-pot;
_but_--there was, or had been, an exact duplicate in the grimy shop in
Soho. There was the wicked idea. _Perhaps_ this duplicate brooch hadn't
been sold. If not, it would be easy to buy it, stuff it with red hair,
and take it back in triumph to Aunt Sarah. And, as I thought, I
remembered that I had frequently seen a girl with just such red hair,
waiting at a cheap eating-house, where I sometimes passed on my way
home. I had noticed her particularly, not only because of the uproarious
colour of her hair, which was striking enough, but because of its exact
similarity in shade to that in Aunt Sarah's brooch. No doubt the girl
would gladly sell a small piece of it for a few shillings. Then the
initials for the brooch-back would be easy enough. They were just the
plain italic capitals _J_ and _S_, one at each side, and I was confident
that, with the brooch before me, I could trace their precise shape and
size for the guidance of an engraver. And Aunt Sarah would never for a
moment suppose that there could be another brooch in the world at all
like her most precious "jewel." The longer I thought over the scheme the
easier it seemed, and the greater the temptation grew. Till at last I
went and looked in at the window of the shop in Soho.

[Illustration: "THE FIRST STEP IN THE PATH OF DECEPTION."]

Was the brooch sold or not? It was not in the window, and I tried to
persuade myself that it must be gone. I hung about for some little
while, but at last I took the first step in the path of deception. I
went into the shop.

Once there, I was in for it, and nothing but the absence of the brooch
could have saved me. But the brooch was there, in all its dusty
hideousness, in a box, among scores of others. I turned it over and
over; there was no doubt about it--barring the hair and the initials, it
was as exact a duplicate as was ever made. The man asked two pounds ten
for it, and I was in such a state of agitation that I paid the money at
once, feeling unequal to the further agony of beating him down to the
price he had last offered it at in his window.

I slipped it into my trouser pocket and sneaked guiltily down the
street. There was no going back for me now--fate was too strong. I went
home and locked myself in my room. There I spent an hour and a half in
marking the exact position and size of the necessary initials. When all
was set out satisfactorily, I went back to Soho again to find an
engraver.

I might have gone to the shop where I had bought the brooch, but I
fancied that might let the shopkeeper some little way into my secret. I
walked till I came to just such another shop, and then, feeling, as I
imagined, like an inexperienced shoplifter on a difficult job, I went in
and gave my instructions. I offered to pay extra if the work could be
done at once, and under my inspection. The engraver eyed me rather
curiously, I fancied, but he was quite ready to earn his money, and in a
quarter of an hour I was sneaking along the street again with the
fraudulent brooch, one step nearer completion. The letters, to my eye
at least, were as exactly cut as if copied from the original. They were
a bit too bright and new, of course, but that I would remedy at home,
and I did. A little fine emery on the point of my thumb, properly
persevered with, took off all the raw edges and the newness of
appearance, and a trifle of greasy black from a candle-wick, well wiped
into the incisions and almost all wiped out again, left the initials
apparently fifty years old at least.

Next morning's interview with Aunt Sarah was one of veiled triumph. I
was on the track of the jewels at last, I said--or at any rate, of the
brooch. I might have to sacrifice the rest, I explained, for the sake of
getting that. Indeed, I was pretty sure that I could only get at the
brooch. I could say no more, just then, but I hinted that nothing must
be said to a soul, as my proceedings might possibly be considered, in
the eye of the law, something too near compounding a felony. But I would
risk that, I assured Aunt Sarah, and more, in her behalf. She was
mightily pleased, and said I was the only member of the family worth his
salt. I began to think the Esquimaux stood a chance of going short of
moral literature, if Mr. Finch were depending much on Aunt Sarah's will.

The rest seemed very easy, but in reality it wasn't. I set out briskly
enough for the eating-house, but as I neared it my steps grew slower and
slower. It seemed an easy thing, at a distance, to ask for a lock of the
red-headed girl's hair, but as I came nearer the shop, and began to
consider what I should say, the job seemed a bit awkward. She was a
thick-set sort of girl, with very red arms and a snub nose, and I felt
doubtful how she would take the request. Perhaps she would laugh, and
dab me in the face with a wet lettuce, as I had once seen her do with a
jocular customer. Now, I am a little particular about my appearance and
bearing, and I was not anxious to be dabbed in the face with a wet
lettuce by a red-haired waitress at a cheap eating-house. If I had known
anybody else with hair of that extraordinary colour I would not have
taken the risk; but I didn't. Nevertheless I hesitated, and walked up
and down a little before entering.

There was no customer in the place, for it was at least an hour before
mid-day. The girl issued from a recess at the back, and came toward me.
She seemed a terrible--a most formidable girl, seen so closely. She had
small, sharp eyes, a snub nose, and a very large mouth--the sort of
mouth that is ever ready to pour forth shrill abuse or vulgar derision.
My heart sank into my boots, I couldn't--no, I _couldn't_ ask her
straightaway for a lock of her hair.

I temporized. I said I would have something to eat. She asked what. I
said I would take anything there was. After a while she brought a plate
of hideous coarse cold beef--like cat's meat. This is a sort of food I
_cannot_ eat, but I had to try. And she brought pickles on a
plate--horrid, messy yellow pickles. I had often wondered as I passed
what gave that eating-house its unpleasant smell, and now I knew it was
the pickles.

I cut the offensive stuff into small pieces, made as much show of eating
it as I could, and shoved it into a heap at one side of the plate. The
girl had retired to a partly inclosed den at the back of the shop, where
she seemed to be washing plates. After all, I reflected, there was
nothing to be afraid of. It was a purely commercial transaction, and no
doubt the girl would be very glad to sell a little of her hair.
Moreover, the longer I waited the greater risk I ran of having other
customers come in and spoil the thing altogether. There was the
hair--the one thing to straighten all my difficulties, and a few
shillings would certainly buy all I wanted. I rapped on the table with
my fork.

The red-haired girl came down the shop wiping her hands on her
apron--big hands, and very red; terrible hands to box an ear or claw a
face. This thought disturbed me, but I said, manfully, "I should like,
if you've no objection, to have--I should like--I should like a----"

It was useless. I _couldn't_ say "a lock of your hair." I stammered, and
the girl stared doubtfully. "Cawfy?" she suggested.

"Yes, yes," I answered, eagerly, with a breath of relief. "Coffee, of
course."

The coffee was as bad as the beef. It came in a vast, thick mug, like a
gallipot with a handle. It ought to have been very strong coffee,
considering its thickness, but it had a flat, rather metallic taste, and
a general flavour of boiled crusts.

I became convinced that the real reason of my hesitation was the fact
that I had not settled how much to offer for the hair. It might look
suspicious, I reflected, to offer too much, but, on the other hand, it
would never do to offer too little. What was the golden mean? As I
considered, a grubby, shameless boy put his head in at the door, and
shouted, "Wayo, carrots? What price yer wig?"

The red-haired girl made a savage rush, and the boy danced off across
the street with gestures of derision. Plainly, I couldn't make an offer
at all after that. She would take it as a deliberate insult--suggested
by the shout of the dirty boy. Perhaps she would make just such a savage
rush at _me_--and what should I do then? Here the matter was settled for
the present by the entrance of two coal-heavers.

[Illustration: "SHE LOOKED A TRIFLE SUSPICIOUS."]

For three days in succession I went to that awful eating-house, and each
day I ate, or pretended to eat, just such an awful meal. I shirked the
beef, but I was confronted with equally fearful bloaters--bloaters that
smelt right across the street. It occurred to me, so criminal and so
desperate had I grown, that I might _steal_ enough of the girl's hair
for my purpose, by the aid of a pair of pocket scissors, and so escape
all difficulty. With that design I followed her quietly down the shop
once or twice, making a pretence of reaching for a paper, or a
mustard-pot, or the like. But that was useless. I never knew which way
she would move next, and I saw no opportunity of effecting my purpose
without the risk of driving the points of my scissors into her head.
Indeed, if I had seen the chance, I should scarce have had the courage
to snip. And once, when she turned suddenly, she looked a trifle
suspicious.

I attempted to engage her in conversation, in order that I might, by
easy and natural stages, approach the subject of her hair. It was not
easy. She disliked hair as a subject of conversation. I began to
suspect, and more than suspect, that her hair was the stock joke of the
regular customers. Not a boy could pass the door singing "Her golden
hair was hanging down her back" (as most of them did), but she bridled
and glared. Truly, it was very awkward. But then, there was no other
such hair, so far as my observation had gone, in all London, or anywhere
else.

Some men have the easiest way imaginable of dropping into familiar
speech with bar-maids and waitresses at a moment's notice, or less. I
had never cultivated the art, and now I was sorry for my neglect. Still,
I might try, and I did. But somehow it was difficult to hit the right
note. My key varied. A patronizingly uttered "My dear," seemed a good
general standby to begin or finish a sentence; so I said:
"Ah--Hannah--Hannah, my dear!"

The words startled me when I heard them--I feared my tone had scarcely
the correct dignity. Hannah's red head turned, and she came across,
grinning slily. "Yus?" she said, interrogatively, and still grinning.

I feared I had begun wrong. It was all very well to be condescendingly
familiar with a waitress, but it would never do to allow the waitress to
be familiar with me. So I said, rather severely, "Just give me a
newspaper. Ah--Hannah!"

I think I hit the medium very well with the last two words. "Yus?" she
said again, and now she positively leered.

"I--I meant to have given you sixpence yesterday; you're very attentive,
Hannah--Hannah, my dear." (That didn't sound quite right, somehow--never
mind.) "Very attentive. Here's the sixpence. Er--er"--(what in the world
should I say next?) "What-er-what" (I was desperate) "what is the latest
fashion in hair?"

"Not _your_ colour ain't," she said; "so now!" And she swung off with a
toss of her red head.

I had offended her! I ought to have guessed she would take that question
amiss--I was a fool. And before I could apologize a customer came in--a
waggoner. I had lost another day! And Aunt Sarah was growing more and
more impatient.

At last I resolved to go at the business point-blank, as I should have
done at first. Plainly it was my only chance. The longer I made my
approach, the more awkward I got. I had the happy thought to take a
flower in my button-hole, and give it to Hannah as a peace-offering,
after my unintentional rudeness of yesterday. It acted admirably, and I
was glad to see a girl in her humble position so much gratified by a
little attention like that. She grinned--she even blushed a little--all
the while I ate that repulsive early lunch. So I seized the opportunity
of her good humour, paid for the food as soon as I could, and said, with
as much business-like ease as I could assume:--

"I--ah--I should like, Hannah, ah--if you don't mind--just as a--a
matter of--of scientific interest, you know--scientific interest, my
dear--to buy a small piece of your hair."

"'Oo ye gettin' at?" she replied, with a blush and a giggle.

"I--I'm perfectly serious," I said--and I believe I looked desperately
so. "I'll give you half a sovereign for a small piece--just a lock--for
purely scientific purposes, I assure you."

She giggled again, more than ever, and ogled in a way that sent cold
shivers all over me. It struck me now, with a twinge of horror, that
perhaps she supposed I had conceived an attachment for her, and wanted
the hair as a keepsake. That would be terrible to think of. I swore
inwardly that I would never come near that street again, if only I got
out safely with the hair this time.

She went over into her lair, where the dirty plates were put, and
presently returned with the object of my desires--a thick lump of hair
rolled up in a piece of newspaper. I thrust the half-sovereign towards
her, grabbed the parcel, and ran. I feared she might expect me to kiss
her.

Now I had to employ another Soho jeweller, but by this time, after the
red-headed waitress, no jeweller could daunt me. The pane of glass had
to be lifted from the back of the brooch, the brown hair that was in it
removed, and a proper quantity of the red hair substituted; and the work
would be completed by the refixing of the glass and the careful
smoothing down of the gold rim about it. I found a third dirty
jeweller's shop, and waited while the jeweller did it all.

And now that the thing was completed, I lost no time on the way to Aunt
Sarah's. I went by omnibus, and alighted a couple of streets from her
house. It astonishes me, now, to think that I could have been so calm. I
had never had a habit of deception, but now I had slid into it by such
an easy process, and it had worked so admirably for a week or more, that
it seemed quite natural and regular.

I turned the last corner, and was scarce a dozen yards from Aunt Sarah's
gate, when I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned, and saw the detective
who had questioned me, and everybody else, just after the robbery.

"Good morning, Mr. Simpson," he said. "Mr. _Clement_ Simpson, I
believe?"

"Yes," I said.

"Just so. Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Simpson, but I must get you to come
along o' me on a small matter o' business. You needn't say anything, of
course; but if you do I shall have to make a note of it, and it may be
used as evidence."

What was this? I gasped, and the whole street seemed to turn round and
round and over and over. Arrested! What for?

Whether I asked the question or only moved my lips silently, I don't
know, but the man answered--and his voice seemed to come from a distance
out of the chaos about me.

"Well, it's about that jewel-case of your aunt's, of course. Sorry to
upset you, and no doubt it'll be all right, but just for the present you
must come to the station with me. I won't hold you if you promise not to
try any games. Or you can have a cab, if you like."

[Illustration: "SORRY TO TROUBLE YOU, MR. SIMPSON."]

"But," I said, "but it's all a mistake--an awful mistake! It's--it's out
of the question! Come and see my aunt, and she'll tell you! Pray let me
see my aunt!"

"Don't mind obliging a gentleman if I can, and if you want to speak to
your aunt you may, seein' it's close by, and it ain't a warrant case.
But I shall have to be with you, and you'll have to come with me after,
whatever she says."

I was in an awful position, and I realized it fully. Here I was with
that facsimile brooch in my possession, and if it were found on me at
the police-station, of course, it would be taken for the genuine
article, and regarded as a positive proof that I was the thief. In the
few steps to Aunt Sarah's house I saw and understood now what the police
had been at. I was the person they had suspected from the beginning.
Their pretence of dropping the inquiry was a mere device to throw me off
my ground and lead me to betray myself by my movements. And I had been
watched frequenting shady second-hand jewellery shops in Soho! And, no
doubt I had been seen in the low eating-house where I might be supposed
to be leaving messages for criminal associates! It was hideous. On the
one side there was the chance of ruin and imprisonment for theft, and on
the other the scarcely less terrible one of estranging Aunt Sarah for
ever by confessing my miserable deception. Plainly I had only one way of
safety--to brazen out my story of the recovery of the brooch. I was
bitterly sorry, now, that I had coloured the story, so far as it had
gone, quite so boldly. It had gone a good way, too, for I had been
obliged to add something to it each time I saw Aunt Sarah during my
operations. But I must lie through stone walls now.

I scarcely remember what Aunt Sarah said when she was told I was under
arrest for the robbery. I know she broke a drawing-room chair, and had
to be dragged off the floor on to the sofa by the detective and myself.
But she got her speech pretty soon, and protested valiantly. It was a
shameful outrage, she proclaimed, and the police were incapable fools.
"While you've been doing nothing," she said, "my dear nephew has traced
out the jewels and--and----"

"I've got the brooch, aunt!" I cried, for this seemed the dramatic
moment. And I put it in her hand.

"I must have that, please," the detective interposed. "Do you identify
it?"

"Identify it?" exclaimed Aunt Sarah, rapturously. "Of course I identify
it! I'd know my Uncle Joseph's brooch among ten thousand! And his
initials and his hair and all! Identify it, indeed! I should think so!
And did you get it from Bludgeoning Bill himself, Clement, my dear?"

Now, "Bludgeoning Bill" was the name I had given the chief ruffian of my
story; rather a striking sort of name, I fancied. So I said, "Yes--yes.
That's the name he's known by--among his intimates, of course. The
police" (I had a vague idea of hedging, as far as possible, with the
detective)--"the police only know his--his other names, I believe. A--a
very dangerous sort of person!"

"And did you have much of a struggle with him?" pursued Aunt Sarah,
hanging on my words.

"Oh, yes--terrible, of course. That is, pretty fair, you
know--er--nothing so very extraordinary." I was getting flurried. That
detective _would_ look at me so intently.

"And was he very much hurt, Clement? Any bones broken, I mean, or
anything of that sort?"

"Bones? O, yes, of course--at least, not many, considering. But it
serves him right, you know--serves him right, of course."

"Oh, I'm sure he richly deserved it, Clement. I suppose that was in the
thieves' kitchen?"

"Yes--no, at least; no, not there. Not exactly in the kitchen, you
know."

"I see; in the scullery, I suppose," said Aunt Sarah, innocently. "And
to think that you traced it all from a few footsteps and a bit of cloth
rag on the wall and--and what else was it, Clement?"

"A trouser button," I answered. I felt a trifle more confident here, for
I _had_ found a trouser button. "But it was nothing much--not actual
evidence, of course. Just a trifle, that's all."

But here I caught the policeman's eye, and I went hot and cold. I could
not remember what I had done with that trouser button of mine. Had the
police themselves found it later? Was this their clue? But I nerved
myself to meet Aunt Sarah's fresh questions.

"I suppose there's no chance of getting the other things?" she asked.

"No," I answered, decisively, "not the least." I resolved not to search
for any more facsimiles.

"Lummy Joe told you that, I suppose?" pursued my aunt, whose memory for
names was surprising. "Either Lummy Joe or the Chickaleary Boy?"

"Both," I replied, readily. "Most valuable information from
both--especially Chickaleary Joe. Very honourable chap, Joe. Excellent
burglar, too."

Again I caught the detective's eye, and suddenly remembered that
everything I had been saying might be brought up as evidence in a court
of law. He was carefully noting all those rickety lies, and presently
would write them down in his pocket-book, as he had threatened! Another
question or two, and I think I should have thrown up the game
voluntarily, but at that moment a telegram was brought in for Aunt
Sarah. She put up her glasses, read it, and let the glasses fall.
"_What!_" she squeaked.

She looked helplessly about her, and held the telegram toward me. "I
must see that, please," the detective said.

It was from the manager of the hydropathic establishment at Malvern
where Aunt Sarah had been staying, and it read thus:--

"_Found leather jewel-case with your initials on ledge up chimney of
room lately occupied here. Presume valuable, so am sending on by special
messenger._"

"Why, bless me!" said Aunt Sarah, as soon as she could find speech;
"bless me! I--I felt _sure_ I'd taken it down from the chimney and put
it in the trunk!" And, with her eyes nearly as wide open as her mouth,
she stared blankly in my face.

Personally I saw stars everywhere, as though I had been hit between the
eyes with a club. I don't remember anything distinctly after this till I
found myself in the street with the detective. I think I said I
preferred waiting at the police-station.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is unnecessary to say much more, and it would be very painful to me.
I know, indirectly, through the police, that the jewel-case _did_ turn
up a few hours later, with the horrible brooch, and all the other things
in it, perfectly safe. Aunt Sarah had put it up the chimney for safety
at Malvern--just the sort of thing she would do--and made a mistake
about bringing it away, that was all. There it had stayed for more than
a week before it had been discovered, while Aunt Sarah was urging me to
deception and fraud. That was some days ago, and I have not seen her
since; I admit I am afraid to go. I see no very plausible way of
accounting for those two brooches with the initials and the red
hair--and no possible way of making them both fit with the thrilling
story of Bludgeoning Bill and the thieves' kitchen. What am I to do?

[Illustration: "SHE LOOKED HELPLESSLY ABOUT HER."]

But I have not told all yet. This is the letter I have received from
Honoria Prescott, in the midst of my perplexities:--

"SIR,--I inclose your ring, and am sending your other presents by parcel
delivery. I desire to see no more of you. And though I have been so
grossly deceived, I confess that even now I find it difficult to
understand your extraordinary taste for waitresses at low eating-houses.
Fortunately my mother's kitchen-maid happens to be a relative of Hannah
Dobbs, and it was because she very properly brought to my notice a
letter which she had received from that young person that I learnt of
your scandalous behaviour. I inclose the letter itself, that you may
understand the disgust and contempt with which your conduct inspires
me.--Your obedient servant,

    "Honoria Prescott."

The lamentable scrawl which accompanied this letter I have copied below
at least the latter part of it, which is all that relates to myself:--

"Lore Jane i have got no end of a yung swel after me now and no mistake.
quite the gent he is with a torl hatt and frock coat and spats and he
comes here every day and eats what i know he dont want all for love of
me and he give me 1/2 a soffrin for a lock of my hare to day and rushed
off blushin awful he has bin follerin me up and down the shop that
loving for days, and presents of flowers that beautiful, and his name is
Clement Simpson i got it off a letter he pulled out of his pocket one
day he is that adgertated i think he is a friend of your missise havent
i hurd you say his name but I do love him that deer so now no more from
yours afexntely,

    "Hannah Dobbs."

Again I ask any charitable person with brains less distracted than my
own--What _am_ I to do? I wonder if Mr. Finch will give me an
appointment as tract-distributor to the Esquimaux?



_A Record of 1811._

OR, A SHEEP'S COAT AT SUNRISE, A MAN'S COAT AT SUNSET.

By J. R. Wade.


It is no new thing for us to see records established one day and beaten
the next, the top place nowadays being no sooner reached by one
individual than challenged by another. The record in the manufacture of
cloth, however, with which this article deals, though of eighty-eight
years' standing, has never yet been eclipsed.

The scene of this remarkable achievement in the sartorial art is the
village of Newbury, Berkshire, and it came about in this way. Mr. John
Coxeter, a then well-known cloth manufacturer, the owner of Greenham
Mills, at the above-named village, remarked in the course of
conversation one day in the year 1811, to Sir John Throckmorton, Bart.,
of Newbury, "So great are the improvements in machinery which I have
lately introduced into my mill, that I believe that in twenty-four hours
I could take the coat off your back, reduce it to wool, and turn it back
into a coat again."

The proverb says, "There's many a true word spoken in jest." So great an
impression did Mr. Coxeter's boast make upon the Baronet, that shortly
afterwards he inquired of Mr. Coxeter if it would really be possible to
make a coat from sheep's wool between the sunrise and sunset of a
summer's day. That gentleman, after carefully calculating the time
required for the various processes, replied that in his opinion it could
be done.

Not long after the above conversation, which took place at a dinner
party, Sir John Throckmorton laid a wager of a thousand guineas that at
eight o'clock in the evening of June the 25th, 1811, he would sit down
to dinner in a well-woven, properly-made coat, the wool of which formed
the fleeces of sheep's backs at five o'clock that same morning. Such an
achievement appearing practically impossible to his listeners, his bet
was eagerly accepted.

[Illustration: _From an_] SHEARING THE SHEEP. [_Old Print._]

Sir John intrusted the accomplishment of the feat to Mr. Coxeter, and
shortly before five o'clock on the morning stated, the early-rising
villagers of Newbury were astonished to see their worthy squire,
accompanied by his shepherd and two sheep, journeying towards Greenham
Mills. Promptly at five o'clock operations commenced, and no time was
lost in getting the sheep shorn. Our first illustration, which is from
an old print executed at the time, shows the sheep being shorn by the
shepherd, and is worthy of a little attention. Sir John stands in the
middle of the picture, having his measurements taken by the tailor, and
it is an interesting fact that, except that all implements to be used
were placed in readiness on the field of action, the smallest actual
operations in the making of the coat were performed between the hours
mentioned.

[Illustration: _From an_] MAKING THE CLOTH. [_Old Print._]

Mr. Coxeter stands just behind the sheep-shearer, watching with an
anxious eye, whilst to the right may be seen a tent, which was erected
presumably for refreshments, and schoolboys climbing a greasy-pole and
generally making the best of the holiday which had been accorded them in
order that they might witness this singular spectacle.

The sheep being shorn, the wool was washed, stubbed, roved, spun, and
woven, and our next illustration, also from an old print, shows the
weaving, which was performed by Mr. Coxeter, junior, who had been found
by previous competition to be the most expert workman. In the background
of this picture may be seen the carcass of one of the sheep; of which
more later. The curious-looking objects in the basket, held, by the way,
by another of Mr. Coxeter's sons, are wool spools, while in the extreme
background, looking out of the window of a quaint old cottage, may be
seen "the gods in the gallery."

When we compare the primitive-looking loom seen in this picture with the
powerful machinery of to-day, the record then established certainly
becomes all the more wonderful.

The cloth thus manufactured was next scoured, fulled, tented, raised,
sheared, dyed, and dressed, being completed by four o'clock in the
afternoon, just eleven hours after the arrival of the two sheep in the
mill-yard.

In the meantime, the news of the wager had spread abroad among the
neighbouring villages, bringing crowds of people eager to witness the
conclusion of this extraordinary undertaking.

[Illustration: THE FINISHED COAT.

_From a Photo. by C. J. Coxeter, Abingdon._]

The cloth was now put into the hands of the tailor, Mr. James White, who
had already got all measurements ready during the operations, so that
not a moment should be lost; and he, together with nine of his men, with
needles all threaded, at once started on it. For the next two hours and
a quarter the tailors were busy cutting out, stitching, pressing, and
sewing on buttons, in fact, generally converting the cloth into a "well
woven, properly made coat," and at twenty minutes past six Mr. Coxeter
presented the coat to Sir John Throckmorton, who put the garment on
before an assemblage of over five thousand people, and sat down to
dinner with it on, together with forty gentlemen, at eight o'clock in
the evening.

[Illustration: MR. CHARLES COXETER, THE ONLY LIVING EYE-WITNESS.

_From a Photo. by C. J. Coxeter, Abingdon._]

Through the kindness of Sir William Throckmorton, its present owner, we
are able to give our readers, in the illustration shown at the bottom of
the previous page, a photograph of this wonderful coat. The garment was
a large hunting-coat of the then admired dark Wellington colour, a sort
of a damson tint. It had been completed in the space of thirteen hours
and ten minutes, the wager thus being won with an hour and
three-quarters to spare.

To commemorate the event, the two sheep who were the victims of Mr.
Coxeter's energy were killed and roasted whole in a meadow near by, and
distributed to the public, together with 120 gallons of strong beer,
this latter being the gift of Mr. Coxeter.

Our next illustration is a photograph of Mr. Charles Coxeter, of
Abingdon, Berks, the only living eye-witness to this feat. He is the
younger brother to the weaver of the cloth, long since dead, who is
shown in our second illustration. His present age is ninety-three. When
approached on the subject he said he well remembered the event, and
recalls with pleasure seeing the workmen dine off portions of the sheep,
in a barge on the river near the mill. The original mill unfortunately
no longer stands, having long since been destroyed, a more modern mill
now occupying the site.

We now give an illustration of the silver medal which was struck in
honour of the occasion. It is worded as follows:--

[Illustration]

"Presented to Mr. John Coxeter, of Greenham Mills, by the Agricultural
Society, for manufacturing wool into cloth and into a coat in thirteen
hours and ten minutes."

Mr. Coxeter was a very enterprising individual, for seemingly not
content with this wonderful achievement, not many years after, in
connection with the public rejoicings for peace after the Battle of
Waterloo, he had a gigantic plum-pudding made, which was cooked under
the supervision of twelve ladies. This monster pudding measured over
20ft. in length, and was conveyed to his house on a large timber waggon,
drawn by two oxen, which were highly decorated with blue ribbons. The
driver was similarly ornamented, and bore aloft an old family sword of
state, presumably to give _éclat_ to the occasion. Arrived at its
destination, the pudding was cut up in the celebrated old mill-yard at
Greenham, and distributed to all and sundry, those who had the good
fortune to partake of it pronouncing the pudding to be "as nice as
mother makes 'em."

[Illustration: BILL PRINTED FOR THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851.]

The famous coat, which has found a resting-place in a glass case in Sir
William Throckmorton's hall, was exhibited at the great International
Exhibition of 1851, where it attracted a great deal of attention, a few
copies of the old engravings from which our first two illustrations are
reproduced being eagerly bought up. Our last photograph shows the bill
which was printed for that exhibition.

Over thirty years afterwards the coat was again brought before public
notice, this time at the Newbury Art and Industrial Exhibition of 1884.
It was photographed for the first time, by Sir William's permission, for
this article. Though to us it may seem rather a curious cut for a
hunting-coat, it was the approved style for those times, the long
coat-tails flying to the wind during a chase. Needless to say, however,
this coat has never been used for that purpose.

These are certainly days of speed, and though probably with the vastly
superior machinery of to-day this wonderful performance could be
eclipsed, it is interesting to notice that up to the present it has
never been equalled.



_Animal Actualities._

     NOTE.--_These articles consist of a series of perfectly authentic
     anecdotes of animal life, illustrated by Mr. J. A. Shepherd, an
     artist long a favourite with readers of_ THE STRAND MAGAZINE. _We
     shall be glad to receive similar anecdotes, fully authenticated by
     names of witnesses, for use in future numbers. While the stories
     themselves will be matters of fact, it must be understood that the
     artist will treat the subject with freedom and fancy, more with a
     view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation of the
     occurrence._


IX.

[Illustration]

This is a tale of true love that no social distinctions could hinder; of
a love that persisted in spite of misfortune, disfigurement, and
poverty; of a love that ruled not merely the camp, the court, and the
grove, but the back garden also: of a love that (as Mr. Seaman sings)
"was strong love, strong as a big barn-door"; of a love that, no doubt,
would have laughed at locksmiths had the cachinnation been necessary;
that, in short, was the only genuine article, with the proper trade-mark
on the label.

[Illustration: MANY SUITORS.]

"Pussy" was the name of a magnificent Persian cat--a princess among
cats, greatly sought by the feline nobility of the neighbourhood. She
was the sort of cat that no merely individual name would be good enough
for; her magnificence soared above all such smallnesses, and, as she was
_the_ ideal cat, combining all the glories and all the beauties of
cat-hood in herself, she was called, simply and comprehensively,
"Pussy." She condescended to reside at the house, and at the expense, of
Mr. Thomas C. Johnson, of The Firs, Alford, Lincolnshire, and all the
most aristocratic Toms of the vicinity were suitors for the paw of this
princess. Blue Persians, buff Persians, Manx cats, Angora cats--all were
her devoted slaves, and it was generally expected that she would make a
brilliant match. She had a house (or palace) of her own at the back of
Mr. Johnson's. Here were her bed, her larder--an elegant shelf
supporting her wire meat safe, and her special knife and fork for her
meat must be cut up for her--and her plate and saucer. And here, by the
door, many suitors waited to bow their respects as she came forth to
take the air. But Pussy, who trod the earth as though the planet were
far too common for her use, turned up her nose at the noble throng, and
dismissed them with effective and sudden language, conjectured to be a
very vigorous dialect of Persian.

[Illustration: BOWING THEIR RESPECTS.]

[Illustration: VERY VIGOROUS PERSIAN.]

Then came, meekly crawling and limping to her door, one Lamech, a cat of
low degree and no particular breed. His only claim to distinction of any
sort was that he had lost a leg--perhaps in a weasel-trap. He was
ill-fed, bony, and altogether disreputable; his ears were sore, and his
coat unkempt. He came not as a suitor, but as a beggar, craving any odd
scraps that the princess might have no use for. So low was he esteemed,
indeed, that nobody called him Lamech, his proper name, and he was
familiarly and contemptuously known as "Three-legged Tommy." When the
princess's human friends saw Three-legged Tommy hanging about, they
regarded him as a nuisance and a probable offence in the sight of the
princess. Wherefore they chased him mercilessly, tempering their
severities, however, by flinging him scraps of food, as far out into the
road as possible.

[Illustration: COMMOTION AMONG THE NOBILITY.]

But presently a surprising thing was observed. Pussy actually
_encouraged_ Three-legged Tommy! More, she fed him, and her last drop of
new milk and her last and tenderest morsel of meat were reserved for his
regalement. There was intense commotion among the scorned feline
nobility. Three-legged Tommy was actually admitted into that sacred
palace, from the portals of which the most distinguished cats in Alford
had been driven away!

[Illustration: PASSING THE SACRED PORTAL.]

As for Three-legged Tommy himself, he grew not only more confident, but
more knowing. He came regularly at meal times. More, he grew fatter, and
less ragged. The princess enjoyed her self-sacrifice for a time, but
presently she set herself to get a double ration. Sharing her provisions
was all very loving and all very well, but she began to feel that there
were advantages in a full meal; and Three-legged Tommy, now grown much
more respectable, though a hopeless plebeian still, distinctly gave her
to understand that he could do with a bit more.

[Illustration: "THE FEAST IS SPREAD FOR THEE."]

Three-legged Tommy was the princess's first and only love, but next in
her affections ranked Mr. Johnson. It was her habit to follow him about
the house and garden, and to confide her troubles to him, sitting on his
knee. But now she tried stratagem. Five or six times a day she would
assail him with piteous mews, entreating caresses, beseeching eyes, and
the most irresistibly captivating manners she could assume. "What can
she want?" he would say. "She has not long been fed. _Is_ it meat, old
girl?" And, powerless to resist her, he would rise and follow.

Meat it was, of course. And when it was cut she would attack it with
every appearance of ravenous hunger--till the master's back was turned.
Then--"Come, my love, the feast is spread for thee!"

[Illustration]

Out would limp Lamech from behind some near shrub, and Pussy would sit
with supreme satisfaction and watch her spouse's enjoyment of the meal
she had cajoled for him. And so Three-legged Tommy waxed fat and
prospered, and the Beautiful Princess was faithful to him always. Miss
Mary Johnson, who was so kind as to send us the story, calls Pussy "a
devoted helpmeet." We trust she meant no pun.


X.

[Illustration: THE PUPPY'S AMAZEMENT.]

A tortoise has many virtues, as for instance, quietness, dignity, and
lack of ambition. But, as a rule, activity and courage are not credited
to the tortoise. This is a little anecdote of a tortoise who displayed
both, in so far as to encounter, single-handed, a terrible puppy more
than a fortnight old, and several inches high at the shoulder.

[Illustration: A MATCH.]

[Illustration: A DRAG.]

Though the tortoise's lack of ambition may be accepted as a general
principle, nevertheless it is relaxed in the ducal matter of strawberry
leaves. Every tortoise of the sort we keep about our houses and gardens
has an ambition for strawberry leaves--to eat. It may also be said as a
warning (having nothing to do with this anecdote) that the tortoise has
no ambition, or taste, for slugs or other garden pests. The man who
sells them most solemnly avers they have, but that is only his fancy;
the tortoise--at any rate, the tortoise he sells--is a vegetarian, as
well as a teetotaler and a non-smoker. But as to the strawberry leaves,
these are longed for by the tortoise even more than lettuce leaves.
Enthusiasm is not a distinguishing characteristic of the tortoise, but
when he _is_ enthusiastic it is over strawberry leaves. The tortoise of
our anecdote (he had no domestic name, such was his humility) had the
even tenor of his life disturbed by a sudden inroad of puppies, who made
things very busy about him. The puppies did not altogether understand
the tortoise, and the tortoise never wanted to understand the puppies.
But the puppies were playful and inquisitive. One morning, just as the
tortoise had laid hold of a very acceptable "runner" of strawberry
leaves, a puppy, looking for fun, seized the other end in his teeth and
pulled. Something had to go, and it was the strawberry leaf the tortoise
happened to be biting, close by his mouth. Off went the puppy, trailing
the "runner" after him, the tortoise toiling laboriously in the rear.
Presently the puppy, finding that speed was no accomplishment of the
tortoise, stopped at a corner and waited. Up came the tortoise, drums
beating and colours flying, metaphorically speaking, and actually
looking as threatening as a harmless tortoise can manage to look.
"Snap!" went the tortoise. The puppy was nonplussed. What was this
thing? Was it really angry? What would it do to him? His experience of
tortoises was small, and this one looked very threatening. Perhaps the
safest game was to drop the strawberry leaves, at any rate. So dropped
they were, and the puppy sat back in the corner, a trifle apprehensive
of what might happen next. But the strawberry leaves were all the
tortoise wanted, and those he snatched, and straightway squatted down
upon them. Then he ate them, little by little and bite by bite, at his
leisure, regarding the puppy defiantly the while. And the puppy carried
to all his brothers and sisters a terrible tale of the prowess of that
crawling monstrosity that ate leaves, and got formidably angry if you
snatched them away for fun.

[Illustration: A BOLT.]

[Illustration: A SNAP.]

[Illustration: A VICTORY.]



[Illustration: The Memory-Saver

A STORY FOR CHILDREN.]

By F. C. Younger.


It was midnight: the Witch was sitting on an upturned basket in the
hen-house, staring at the Memory-Saver. No one but a witch could have
seen at all inside the hen-house, but this particular Witch had gathered
pieces of decayed wood on the way there, lit them at glow-worms, and
stuck them on the walls. They burnt with a weird, blue light, and showed
the old Witch on the basket scratching her bristly chin; the Black Cock
in a kind of faint up one corner, with his eyes turned up till they
showed the whites; the empty nest; the halves of a broken egg-shell on
the floor; and beside them a tiny round black lump with all sorts of
queer little tags hanging on to it, which was staring back at the Witch
with two frightened little pink eyes.

"It's quite a new idea," said the Witch to herself. "A Memory-Saver! How
thankful many people would be to get hold of one! But they don't know
the way, and they won't ask me. They don't know how to hatch an imp to
save your memory from a cock's egg. They even say that a cock never lays
eggs. Such ignorance! Cocks always lay them at midnight and eat them
before morning; and that's why no one has ever seen one. But if you are
careful to sprinkle the cock with Witch-water three nights running, he
will lay an egg he cannot eat; and if you bless the egg with the Witch's
curse, and roast it three nights in the Witch's fire, when the moon is
on the wane, it will hatch a Memory-Saver. But poor mortals don't know
this, and that's why they're always worrying and 'taxing their
memories,' as they call it, instead of hiring a nice little imp to save
them the trouble. Come here, my dear!" she added, addressing the
Memory-Saver.

The little black lump rolled over and over until he reached her feet,
then gave a jump and landed on two of the thickest of his tags, which
supported him like two little legs. With two others he began to rub his
little black self all over, while he shed little green tears from his
little pink eyes.

He was a queer little person, very like an egg in shape, with no
features but a pair of little pink eyes near the top, and a wide slit
which went about half-way round him and served him for a mouth. The
Witch regarded him in silence; she knew that inside him was nothing but
a number of little rooms, carefully partitioned off from one another,
which could be emptied by pulling the tag attached to each outside.

There was no sound in the hen-house but the frightened clucking of the
hens, the gasping of the Black Cock in the corner, and the sobbing of
the imp, which sounded like the squeaking of a slate-pencil on a slate.
Presently the Witch patted the Memory-Saver on the head.

"Don't cry, my dear," she said; "there's nothing to cry about! And don't
look at that silly Black Cock in the corner. He isn't your Mother any
longer. I'm your Mother now--at least, all the Mother you'll get, and I
shall pinch you if you don't work. I'll just see if you are in good
working order now."

She lifted the imp in her hand as she spoke, and pulled one of the
little tags hanging behind him. The Memory-Saver gave a gasp, and,
opening his mouth to its widest extent, he began to repeat, rapidly:
"J'ai--tu as--il a--nous avons--vous avez--ils ont."

"Very good!" said the Witch, "the French string is in order. I'll try
the poetry."

She pulled another tag as she spoke.

    Th'Assyrian camedownlike a wolfonthefold,
    And--his cohorts were--gleaminglike purpleandgold;
    And the--sheenoftheir--spears was like starsonthesea,
    When the blue--wavesroll--nightly on deepGalilee

panted the Memory-Saver.

"A little jerky," said the Witch, doubling the strings round the imp and
putting him in her pocket; "but it will work smoother in time. It's a
splendid idea," she went on, as she buttoned her cloak and opened the
door. "A Memory-Saver! Pull the string of the subject you want (the name
is written on each tag), and the imp will tell you all about it. Read a
set of lessons to him, and then pull the strings belonging to them, and
he'll reel them all off word for word. How many children I know would
like to get him to take to school in their pockets! There's little Miss
Myra, who is always in trouble about her lessons; she would give all
she's got for him. But I'll only part with him at my own price."

The Witch had left the hen-house, and was trotting as fast as she could
down a little woodland path. The poor little Memory-Saver was jogged
this way and that among the rubbish in the Witch's pocket--queer stones,
herbs, little dead toads, pounded spiders, and bats' wings. He would
soon have been black with bruises if he had not been black by nature.
But the worst pain he suffered was anxiety as to what would become of
him. What was the Witch going to do with him? Why had she taken him away
from the Black Cock, who at least was friendly if he did gasp and show
the whites of his eyes? The imp cried again, and wondered how long he
would have to stay in that choky pocket.

He had not long to wait. That very afternoon the Witch saw Myra crying
over her lessons at the window. She was kept in to learn them, and was
feeling miserable and cross. No one was about, so the Witch crept up to
the window, and told her all about the Memory-Saver, ending by producing
him from her pocket. Oh! how glad he was to get out! He sat gasping with
delight on the Witch's hand, while she explained his talents to someone.
Who was it? The imp looked up and saw a little girl about ten years old,
with an inky pinafore, and long, tumbled brown curls. She looked so much
nicer than the Witch, that the Memory-Saver gazed up in her face with a
forlorn little smile--or at least a smile that would have been "little"
if his mouth had not been so wide.

"What a queer little thing!" cried Myra. "I should like to have him,
only--how _could_ he do all you say?"

"Just listen," said the Witch, pulling a string.

"William I., 1066--William II., 1087--Henry I., 1100--Stephen, 1135...."
said the Memory-Saver, solemnly.

Myra danced with delight.

"Oh, he's splendid!" she cried. "He's just what I want. I never can
remember dates. Oh, how much does he cost? I'm afraid I haven't enough
money."

"I'm sure you haven't," said the Witch. "I wouldn't part with him for
untold gold."

"Then it's no use," said Myra, sadly. "I haven't even got _told_ gold,
only three shillings and twopence-ha'penny."

"You've got something else that will do better," said the Witch,
coaxingly. "Hasn't your brother a large collection of moths and
butterflies?"

"Yes," said Myra, looking rather puzzled; "but what has that to do with
it?"

"Show me the top drawer of his cabinet, dear," said the Witch.

Myra walked to the cabinet, still wondering, drew out the top drawer,
and took it to the window.

[Illustration: "'WHAT A QUEER LITTLE THING!' CRIED MYRA."]

The Witch looked up and down the long rows of moths, each with its wings
outspread on a separate pin. At last she picked out a great
death's-head, and looked at it lovingly. It was a beautiful specimen,
just what she wanted for her latest potion, a wonderful mixture that
would enable you to turn fifteen cart-wheels on a cobweb without
breaking it. "I'll give you the Memory-Saver for this," she cried,
eagerly.

"Oh, but it isn't mine!" said Myra, hastily pulling back the drawer.

"It's your brother's, dear," coaxed the Witch. "You know he would not
mind."

"He would," said Myra; "it's his best specimen; he told me so
yesterday."

"Well, it does him no good in the drawer," pleaded the Witch; "and the
Memory-Saver would prevent your being scolded and punished for not
knowing your lessons, as you are almost every day. Besides, you could
easily save your pocket-money and buy him another moth."

"They're so dear!" sighed Myra. "But grandma always gives me half a
sovereign at Christmas. Well, if you like----"

Myra always maintains that she never gave the Witch permission to take
the moth; but, as she spoke, they both vanished, and Myra only saw the
drawer with the big gap in its row of moths where the death's-head had
been, and the Memory-Saver grinning ecstatically at her from the
window-sill. Poor little fellow; he was _so_ glad to get away from the
Witch's pocket.

Myra's first thought was to move the pins of the other moths, so as to
fill up the big gap.

"Then perhaps he won't notice it's gone," she said to herself; "and, as
the Witch said, it didn't do him any good in the drawer."

Then she took up the little Memory-Saver and examined him curiously. He
was a funny little creature--funnier than ever just now, for he was
trying to express his joy at his change of mistresses, which produced a
violent commotion in all his tags, and considerably enlarged his mouth.
Myra couldn't help laughing, but as she was rather afraid of offending
the Memory-Saver, she begged his pardon immediately, and made him a
comfortable seat on some books on the table.

"Now, Memory-Saver," she said, "I'm going to read my lessons aloud to
you, as the Witch told me. Then you'll know them all, won't you?"

The Memory-Saver nodded so emphatically, that he fell off the books.
Myra picked him up, examined him anxiously to see if he were hurt, and,
finding he was not, sat him down again.

"I've got two lots of lessons to do," she said, mournfully, "yesterday's
and to-day's. Could you do both at once, or would it strain you too
much?"

The Memory-Saver shook himself off his seat this time, in his eagerness
to assure her he could do twenty lots if necessary. When he was once
more settled comfortably, Myra began to read. The Memory-Saver sat
contentedly absorbing French, and geography, and tables.

"I wonder if you really know it all," said Myra, gravely, when she had
finished. "No, don't nod any more, or you will fall off again. I'll just
try one string." She took him up, found the one marked "Tables," and
gave it a gentle tug.

"Once nine is nine, twice nine are eighteen, three times nine are
twenty-seven," said the Memory-Saver, glibly.

"Stop! Stop! that will do!" cried Myra, delighted. "Don't use it all up
before to-morrow."

The next thing was to find somewhere to keep her new treasure--some
place where no one could find him; for Myra felt certain that the stupid
grown-up people would not approve of her imp, or see his usefulness as
clearly as she did.

"They always say, 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again,' and
'You must cultivate your memory,' when I tell them I can't remember my
lessons," she said to herself. "They would take the Memory-Saver away
from me if they found him. I must put it somewhere so that they _can't_
find him."

Such a place was not easy to find, but at last Myra fixed on the top of
the wardrobe in her bedroom.

"They only dust there at spring cleaning time," she said to herself,
"and I can move him then."

So she filled a box with cotton-wool, put the Memory-Saver in it, and
placed it on top of the wardrobe.

"Are you quite comfortable?" she asked; and the Memory-Saver almost
nodded himself out of his box in his joy. It was Paradise after the
Witch's pocket.

"What a good thing he doesn't want anything to eat," thought Myra,
noticing with satisfaction that the woodwork of the wardrobe quite hid
him from anyone below. "The Witch said he feeds on the lessons. How
horrible! _I_ shouldn't like French verbs for breakfast, and grammar for
dinner. They can't be satisfying, but anyhow, they're easy to get. I
always have more than I want."

For some days the Memory-Saver was a great success. Myra put him
carefully in her pocket before she went to school, and pulled the right
string when she was called up to say her lessons. His voice was rather a
sing-song, but that couldn't be helped. Miss Prisms, the schoolmistress,
sent home to Myra's delighted mother a report that her little girl was
making wonderful progress in everything but arithmetic and writing. In
these, alas, the Memory-Saver could not help her. He could say tables,
and weights and measures, but could not do sums in his head, for the
simple reason that he had no head.

At first he was very happy, for Myra took great care of him; but by
degrees she grew careless. She found out he was quite as useful when
treated roughly as when treated kindly, and as it was less trouble to
treat him roughly, she did so.

"Why can't you do mental arithmetic?" she asked him, severely, one day
when she had got into trouble over her sums. "Aren't you ashamed to be
so ignorant, you little imp?"

The Memory-Saver waved his little tags in a wild attempt to explain that
it was because he hadn't got a mind, only two little pink eyes, a big
mouth, and a lot of little partitions inside him to keep the different
kinds of knowledge apart. Unhappily the many bumps he had had lately had
been very bad for his internal constitution, even if the bruises had not
shown outside; the partitions were beginning to leak. All this he tried
to explain by waving his little arms and legs. But Myra was
unsympathetic and did not understand him. She scolded him heartily, and
was not even melted by the little green tears that trickled from his
little pink eyes into his big mouth. But she was to be punished for it.
The poor little Memory-Saver had to remember all that was said to him
whether he liked it or not, and so, when Myra pulled the geography
string next morning in school, he began: "England is bounded on the
north by Scotland.... why can't you do mental arithmetic?... on the
south by the English Channel ... aren't you ashamed ... on the east by
the German Ocean ... to be so ignorant ... and on the west by the Irish
Sea ... you little imp ... and St. George's Channel."

"Myra!" gasped Miss Prisms, and for at least two minutes could say no
more.

"I--I--didn't mean anything," stammered Myra, blushing crimson and ready
to cry.

"I should hope not," said Miss Prisms, severely. "You will learn double
lessons for to-morrow, Myra."

"It's all your fault!" said Myra, angrily, to the Memory-Saver, when she
got home. "You must learn all the lessons for me, and then I'm going to
slap you, do you hear? You horrid little thing!"

[Illustration: "HER BROTHER WAS MAKING A 'RIDICULOUS FUSS.'"]

The Memory-Saver heard well enough, and understood too. Myra was in a
very bad temper. Her brother had discovered that his death's-head moth
was missing, and was making what Myra called a "ridiculous fuss" about
it. He had not asked her if she knew where it was, but she felt very
uncomfortable all the same. She did not think he would have minded so
much. Being uncomfortable, she was cross; and as she dared not be cross
with Miss Prisms, she was cross with the Memory-Saver, and fulfilled her
promise of slapping him when he had done the double lessons for her. She
was too absorbed in her own trouble to notice that his box was half off
the wardrobe top when she put him--not over-gently--into it; and the
bump with which she landed on the floor as she got down from the chair
on which she had been standing quite drowned the bump the box made, as
it fell behind the wardrobe. The poor little Memory-Saver fell out with
a crash, and lay half stunned, feebly waving his little tags. No one
came to pick him up, so he lay there all through the long, dark night.
He was cracked all over, and something very peculiar had happened to his
interior. In fact, though he did not know it, all the partitions had at
last given way, and the French, history, spelling, geography, and tables
had run into one another, and were now all mixed in one great pulpy mass
inside him. No wonder he felt uncomfortable!

When Myra came for him in the morning she found out what had happened.
She fished him out from behind the wardrobe with a good deal of
difficulty, and looked at him in consternation. He was sticky all over
with the tears he had shed, was very soft and limp, and, worst of all,
was leaking the Wars of the Roses and the chief towns of France from
more than one crack. However, Myra was late as it was; she had no time
to examine him carefully. She put him in her pocket, and ran off to
school. She put her hand in her pocket to feel if he were safe as soon
as she got to her seat. He felt softer and stickier than ever. Would he
be able to say the lessons? Myra felt doubtful, but as she did not
remember a word of them herself, she was obliged to trust to him.
Trembling she pulled the "Poetry" string, when Miss Prisms called on her
for her lesson. The Memory-Saver gasped and began; each word hurt him
very much to bring out, but as they came he began to feel strange and
light, happier than he had ever felt before. This is what he said: "A
chieftain to the Highlands bound--cries--the feminine of adjectives is
formed by adding eleven times nine are Rouen, former capital of
Normandy, and heir presumptive to the throne by his descent from the son
of Edward III., eleven times twelve are le père, the father, la mère,
the mother--Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, and this, Paris on the
Seine...."

"Myra, stop at once!" cried Miss Prisms, angrily; but Myra, or, rather,
the Memory-Saver, could not stop. His internal partitions were gone, and
whichever string was pulled, he was obliged to let out all that was
inside him. So for ten dreadful minutes he went on, pouring out French,
geography, history, and tables in one terrible mixture, while Myra
wished she could sink through the floor, the girls tittered, and Miss
Prisms' anger changed to anxiety. She began to fan Myra with an
exercise-book, begged her to be quiet, and assured her she would be
"better directly." At last, however, the Memory-Saver came to an end; he
would have been much longer, but a great deal had leaked out of him in
the night.

[Illustration: "THE GIRLS TITTERED."]

"Twelve twelves are a hundred and forty-four--Bayonne, at the mouth of
the Adour, mounted the throne as Henry VII.," he concluded.

Myra burst out crying. Miss Prisms made her take sal-volatile and lie on
the sofa in her sitting-room. As soon as school was over, she took Myra
home herself, and told her mother the little girl must be going to have
brain-fever. The doctor was called in and shook his head, looking very
wise, although he could find nothing at all the matter with Myra. "It is
a curious case," he said; "let her stay away from school for a week, and
send for me if another attack comes on."

Myra was not sorry for the holiday; it gave her time to examine the
Memory-Saver carefully. She ran through the garden to a little nook by
the duck-pond, where no one could see her, before she dared take him out
of her pocket and look at him! Poor little Memory-Saver! She could
hardly recognise him as the round, plump, cheery little fellow who had
first beamed at her from the window-sill. He was quite flat, for Myra
had sat on him in her excitement; he was soft and pulpy; his little pink
eyes had retreated and lost colour, and his great mouth opened and shut
in gasps, like that of a fish out of water.

Myra gazed at him horrified. What could she do to revive him? She turned
him over and fanned him with a dock-leaf, but he only gasped. Then she
tried the effect of a little geography, but the result was disastrous;
as fast as it entered the poor little imp, it oozed out again all over
him, and he turned almost green with pain.

"Why are you tormenting my offspring?" said a sharp, angry voice at
Myra's elbow. "Leave him alone, or give him to me; I'm hungry!"

It was Myra's turn to gasp now; the Black Cock had never spoken to her
before, and she did not even know he could talk. She looked at him more
than half-frightened.

"He--he isn't yours, he's mine," she stammered.

"Yours, indeed!" crowed the Black Cock, indignantly, "when _I_ had all
the trouble of laying him! Wasn't he hatched from one of my eggs at
midnight, and stolen by the Witch?"

"I didn't know he was," said Myra.

"Well, now you do!" retorted the Cock, "Give him up! Didn't I tell you I
was hungry?"

"But you wouldn't eat your own child?" cried Myra, aghast.

"Child or not," said the Black Cock, "no kind of beetles come amiss to
me."

"He isn't a beetle, he's a Memory-Saver," said Myra. The Black Cock
laughed, and Myra shrank back; she had never heard a Black Cock laugh
before, and felt she would not be sorry to never hear it again; it was
not a pleasant sound.

"I don't know anything about Memories," said the Black Cock; "but look
at him, and then tell me he's not a beetle!"

Myra looked anxiously. Certainly something very curious was happening to
the Memory-Saver: his little tags had arranged themselves in rows
underneath him; he was growing longer, he was very like a beetle. _He
was a beetle!_

Myra, who could not bear beetles, rose with a scream and threw him out
of her lap on to the mud. The Black Cock rushed at him as he scuttled
towards the water, but Myra drove him back, and allowed the Memory-Saver
time to reach the pond. She gave a little sigh of relief as he
disappeared, while the Black Cock gave an angry crow, turned his back on
Myra, and stalked back to the poultry yard. He never spoke to her again,
but whether it was because he was too offended, or for other reasons,
Myra never knew.

"After all," she thought, as she went home, "I'm glad he turned into a
water-beetle. It must be much more comfortable than always being full of
lessons. I suppose he'll live on mud now. I hope he'll be happy. He was
a good little fellow, and I wish I'd been kinder to him. How interested
they will all be at home when I tell them about him!"

[Illustration: "SHE THREW HIM OUT OF THE HER LAP."]

But they were not. They said she must be going to have brain-fever, and
sent for the doctor again. The only part of her story they believed was
that she had taken her brother's moth from the cabinet, and this they
said was naughty, and she must save up her pocket-money and buy another.

"I'll never, _never_ tell a grown-up person anything again!" thought
Myra.

As for the Memory-Saver, at the bottom of the pond he met a pretty young
lady water-beetle, and asked her to marry him at once, which she did. He
raised a large family, and lived very happily ever after. None of the
ducks dare touch him for fear of the Witch, so that he found life much
more pleasant than when he was a Memory-Saver. Myra often walked round
the pond, looking for him, but she never saw either him or the old Witch
again.



_Curiosities._[A]

[_We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay
for such as are accepted._]

  [A] Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.


A MAMMOTH SHIRT.

The immense shirt seen in the illustration below was constructed for a
shirtmaker at Sioux City, Iowa. It was mounted on a bicycle and figured
in the parades of the Carnival Festival in October of last year. The
yoke measured 5ft. 2in. from shoulder to shoulder, waist 21ft. 3in.,
height 8ft., and collar size 57in. and 12in. high. Twenty-five yards of
muslin were used in making it, and the ironing of the bosom was no small
job, taking an expert 2-1/4 hours. Our photograph was taken on "Bicycle
Day." Previously, on "Industrial Day," it had taken first prize as the
most novel exhibit. On that day the bicycle riders were not in evidence,
nor was the man in the collar, the shirt gliding gracefully along the
street without apparent motive power. The photograph was sent in by Mr.
E. Davis, Sioux City, Iowa, U.S.A.

[Illustration]


ENTERPRISE EXTRAORDINARY--AND ITS RESULT.

In the spring of each year the enterprising firm of Cartwright and
Headington, of Portland, Ind., U.S.A., present their customers with
pumpkin seed, offering substantial prizes for the heaviest pumpkin grown
from their seed. The specimen seen in our photo., which was sent in by
Mr. Clyde S. Whipple, of the Auditorium, Portland, is the prize-winner
out of 140 competitors. It weighs 153lb., and is 7ft. in circumference.
The little boy inside is four years old.

[Illustration]


ANOTHER TRADE TROPHY.

This charming model of Conway Castle and Bridge is made entirely from
tobacco and cigarettes, and is the work of Mr. John H. Harrison, of 247,
West Derby Road, Liverpool. Mr. Harrison writes as follows: "The length
of the model, which I am exhibiting in my window, is 8-1/2ft.; depth,
2-1/2ft.; height, from surface of water to top of towers, 3ft. The real
genuine article is used for the water, in which gold-fish disport
themselves, although for the purposes of the photo, we substituted
mirrors. This model has been a great source of attraction."

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Hickin & Slater, Liverpool._]



[Illustration]

FOR THE USE OF CHORISTERS.

Here we see a gigantic "singing trumpet," which is preserved in East
Leake Parish Church, Northamptonshire. Only four or five specimens of
these trumpets are now in existence. They appear to have been used in
some of the Midland Counties until a generation or so ago, and were
patronized by bass singers only. The effect of singing through the
trumpet was to give great depth and power to the voice. The large end
rested on the front of the gallery, while the other was held in the
hand. When drawn out to its full extent (it has one slide, like a
telescope), the trumpet measures 7ft. 6in., and its mouth is 1ft. 9in.
in diameter. Truly, a fearsome instrument! Photo. sent in by Mr. Philip
E. Mellard, M.B., Costock Rectory, Loughborough.


NOAH'S ARK.

[Illustration]

This quaint sculptured stone is now included with many other fragments,
evidently of some church, in a wall in Appleby, Westmorland. At first
one wonders how the dove--who has unfortunately lost her head--ever
managed to leave the ark either by the window or by the magnificent
iron-plated door, but this wonder gives place to amazement when one
notices the size of the patriarch's hand (seen through the window), and
commences to speculate on how he, his children, and the animals find
accommodation for their grand proportions in this small boat; the
problem of packing them would tax the ingenuity of a sardine-merchant.
Photo. sent in by Mr. A. S. Reid, Trinity College, Glenalmond.


FACES IN A MAPLE KNOT.

[Illustration]

At first sight this photo. looks like an ancient gargoyle off some
church tower, but it is in reality nothing more or less than a knot of
maple, found near Mausaukee, Wis., U.S.A., by a man of that town. The
finder positively asserts that no knife has been used to produce the
faces. You will notice that the mouth of the upper face is even equipped
with teeth. We are indebted for the photo. to Mr. T. R. Bowring,
photographer, of De Pere, Wisconsin.


AN EARLY PHOTO. OF GENERAL GORDON.

[Illustration]

The accompanying photo has a melancholy interest. It represents General
Gordon as a Captain in the Royal Engineers, and was taken in 1858 or
'59. Our photo. was taken from a scrap-book, which formerly belonged to
the late Mr. James Payn. We are indebted to Mr. H. Powell, 1, Swinton
Street, King's Cross, W.C., for forwarding the photo.


[Illustration]

THE DEVIL'S SPOUT.

Some months ago we reproduced a photo. of the "Puffing Hole" of Kilkee,
Ireland. Here we have a view of a similar phenomenon situated on the
coast of Durham, between South Shields and Marsden. At certain times of
the tide, and during stormy weather, the water rushes into a cave by an
opening at the sea level. This water, together with an enormous quantity
of imprisoned air, spouts out of a small hole at the apex of the cavern
to an immense height, and, if the sun happens to be shining, a beautiful
rainbow is formed. Local tradition, of course, assigns the authorship of
this phenomenon to his Satanic Majesty, the hole being known as the
"Devil's Spout." Photo. sent in by Mr. H. Eltringham, Eastgarth, Westoe,
S. Shields.


A PHONOGRAPHIC POST-CARD.

[Illustration]

Addressing communications to the post just for the pleasure of seeing
whether the hard-worked authorities will be equal to deciphering them is
perhaps not very considerate, but the officials are so very rarely found
at fault that the laugh is almost always on their side. This
phonographic post-card was delivered at the house of Mr. E. H. King, of
Belle View House, Richmond, Surrey, who sent us the card within an hour
and a half after he had posted it to himself locally.


A PERAMBULATING TOWER.

[Illustration]

The gentleman seen in this excellent little snap-shot is a Covent Garden
porter, and he is carrying the fourteen bushel baskets seen in our
photo. in the execution of his ordinary duties. The baskets make a
column of some 196in., or 16ft. 4in. Add 5ft. 10in. as the height of the
carrier, and you get a walking column 22ft. 2in. high. The carrying of
these baskets was not done for a wager. There is room for speculation as
to what would have been the result of the sudden advent of a runaway
horse. Photo. by Mr. W. B. Northrop, 36, Essex Street, Strand, W.C.


[Illustration]

A PAPER TELESCOPE.

This is probably the largest paper telescope in Great Britain. The body
of the instrument is entirely covered with thick brown paper, its length
being 25ft., and the object glass 12in. in diameter. With this
apparatus, the mountains on the surface of the moon appear with great
clearness. The group represents a family studying astronomy. The girl
standing by the side of the gentleman looking through the telescope
holds a Nautical Almanac in her hand, and is aiding the observers with
details from its valuable records.


LITERARY WASPS.

[Illustration]

Says the Rev. W. R. Thomas, of The Beeches, Ozmaston, Haverfordwest, who
forwarded the annexed photo.: "A number of books were put away in a box
in an attic, and forgotten. When the dog-days came, with their sultry
heat, the windows of the attic were kept wide open, with the result that
a swarm of wasps took possession of the box and built their combs out of
the books, boring right through many of the stout covers. The difficulty
of rescuing the remains of the books, and dislodging the wasps, was
considerable, and involved many painful stings." Our photo. shows the
combs after prolonged immersion in water, together with some pieces of
the books.


THE CATS' COTTAGE.

[Illustration]

The luxurious little mansion seen in the accompanying reproduction is
built of bricks cut to about one-fourth of their usual size, and the
windows are of glasses fitted into wooden frames in the usual manner.
There are four rooms--each with plastered walls and carpeted floor--and
a "practicable" stair-case leads to the first and second floors. The
house was built by Stanley Barlow, a son of the Moravian minister of
Leominster, as a residence for his two cats, who have lived in it for
more than a year, making good use of all the arrangements for their
comfort, and apparently quite proud of their unique little domicile. The
building is 4ft. 5in. high, and 4ft. broad, and boasts the name of
"Tunnicliffe Villa," the owner being an enthusiastic admirer of the
Yorkshire batsman. Photo. sent in by Mr. Alf. Death, of Fern Cottage,
Leominster.


[Illustration: _From a Photo. by W. Girling, Stradbroke._]

REMARKABLE WHEAT STACK.

The stack shown in the accompanying illustration has been standing upon
a farm at Stradbroke, in Suffolk, for over twenty-one years, and is
probably the oldest in England. It is the produce of a field of wheat
grown in 1877, when prices ruled somewhat high, and the owner declared
that he would not sell it for less than 30s. per coomb. As the market
value has never risen to this figure he has rigorously kept to his word,
and the stack remains unthrashed to this day. Externally, it presents
quite an antique appearance, and a glance at our illustration will show
what havoc the rats have made; and every few years, when the stack is
re-thatched, the blackened straw contrasts strangely with its new roof.
Photo. sent in by Mr. E. Bond, The Rookery, Eye, Suffolk.


A RUNAWAY COAL-TRUCK.

[Illustration]

The car seen peering out of a breach in the wall of the building in our
photo. was loaded with twenty tons of coal, and belonged to the Orange
Electric Light and Power Co., of New Jersey. It was given a push by its
engine about a quarter of a mile from the incline, which rises steeply
from the ground to the first floor of the building seen in our
illustration. Apparently the push was too hard, for the truck went away
at a tremendous pace, which the brakesman was powerless to moderate,
sailed up the incline like a bird, and was brought to a standstill by
the brick wall, out of which it "butted" a huge fragment. Photo. sent in
by Mr. W. H. Wagner, 105, Watchung Avenue, West Orange, N.J.


MARKINGS ON THE MUZZLE OF A GUN.

[Illustration]

This photo. shows the muzzle of a 12-inch gun. The curious markings are
always to be observed, to a greater or less extent, upon firing any gun;
they are probably caused by the escape of the gases past the
"driving-band" at the moment it leaves the muzzle. The "driving-band" is
the brass ring on the base of the projectile, which cuts its way through
the rifling of the gun, giving the shot the necessary rotary movement.
The regularity of each spurt of gas is very singular. We are indebted
for the snap-shot to an officer in H. M. Navy.


[Illustration]

"THE SPITE HOUSE."

This odd building stands on the corner of 161st Street and Melrose
Avenue, New York City. It is a bit over 4ft. in depth, 17ft. frontage,
and one and a-half storeys high, with a basement and sub-basement built
under the broad sidewalk, extending to the curb. The house itself is of
wood, on a steel frame, and has a slate roof. Its owner is an eccentric
tailor, who lives and carries on his trade below the street. The
interior consists of a small show-room, a store-room, and spiral iron
stairway going down to the "lower regions." The upper storey seems to
have been constructed merely as a finishing touch. It is reached by an
iron ladder from the store-room. The entire construction, appointments,
and fittings are very ingenious, and are all the ideas of the owner. The
story of the house is that the original lot was cut away in opening the
avenue, save only the few feet now occupied by the building. A
controversy arose between the tailor and the owner of the adjoining
property regarding the disposal of the small strip, and the tailor
becoming enraged because his neighbour would neither sell his property
nor pay the price the knight of the shears demanded, built this odd
structure out of spite. The photo. was taken just at the completion of
the building, and before the street had been fully paved. It shows,
however, the dimensions of the building, and also the construction under
the street, etc. Photo. sent in by Mr. W. R. Yard, 156, Fifth Avenue,
New York City.


AN EGG WITH A BOOT-LACE YOLK.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Richards & Co., Ballarat._]

We have heard much of the vagaries of the breakfast egg of commerce, but
the egg which contained the extraordinary yolk seen in the annexed
photo, must assuredly have been quite out of the common run. We will let
Dr. James T. Mitchell, of 15, Raglan Street, South Ballarat, Victoria,
who sent us the photo., tell the story. "The photo.," he says, "shows
the yolk of a pullet's egg, which was boiled for breakfast in the usual
way. When opened, however, the yolk was found to be in the form of a
cord 45in. long and 1/8in. wide. It was irregularly coiled up, twisted
many times, and had a knot firmly tied in the middle. Altogether, it was
very much like a long bootlace of a deep yellow colour." The original is
now in the Museum of the University of Melbourne.


A CANDIDATE FOR APOPLEXY.

[Illustration]

Here is an amusing snap-shot of a boy hanging head downwards from the
roof of a summer-house. From the expression of delirious joy on his
face, it is evident that the young gentleman finds it difficult to
maintain his position. We are indebted for the snap-shot to Mrs. R. A.
Hayes, 82, Merrion Square South, Dublin.


  Transcriber's note:

  _Underscores_ have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Strand Magazine, Volume XVII, February 1899, No. 98." ***

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