I.
That the artists who illustrate the stories in The Wide World Magazine are recruited from a specially-qualified staff is, we venture to think, an obvious fact. Our stories, dealing as they do with stirring adventures and strange happenings, ranging in their locale from our own shores to the uttermost ends of the earth, could not, of necessity, receive adequate and accurate pictorial embellishment save at the hands of experts—men, in fact, who have themselves had experience of the world in its most varied aspects.
Our illustrators must, indeed, have in them something of the soldier, the sailor, the hunter, the cowboy, or the explorer to find a place in our pages. Thus, should we have a story dealing with Patagonia, the pictures are drawn by an artist who has actually visited that remote country; when it is necessary to illustrate a scene in the Arctic we employ an artist to whom the everlasting ice is as familiar as the streets of London. Should we find it necessary to depict a marine incident we have recourse to the brush of an artist who has himself been a sailor. In connection with every story we consult our list of "specials" for one who has either met with a like experience or is thoroughly familiar with the country concerned. Thus it will be seen that The Wide World is able to avail itself of the pictorial services of an altogether exceptional body of men, many of whom have themselves met with thrilling adventures. As their experiences will have a particular interest for our readers, we are glad to be able to give an account of the most exciting episodes in the lives of some of the artists whose work has been a prominent feature in this magazine.
Mr. Henry Sandham is a Wide World artist who has had a distinguished and adventurous career. By birth a Canadian, of British descent, he has seen much of the world in out-of-the-way places. He has hunted on the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and has probably travelled North America as extensively as any man living, his sketching trips having taken him from the north of Canada to the south of the United States, and across country from the Atlantic to the Pacific. He served his time in the Canadian Volunteer Artillery and saw active service during the Fenian raid on Canada in 1864. Much to the consternation of his friends, he once set off on a tour with a notorious desperado known as "Curley Bill," a "bad man," whose boast it was that he could not sleep unless he shot a man per month; if troubled with insomnia, he said, he shot an extra one. Mr. Sandham roughed it for some time with this fire-eating companion, who tended him with a solicitude only equalled by that of a mother for her only child; all he could beg, borrow, or steal he cheerfully placed at the artist's disposal. They were attended by a dwarf, cousin to "Curley Bill," who, although of diminutive stature, was quite as desperate a ruffian as his bigger relative, whom he venerated with an ardour amounting to hero-worship, and whose dress, manners, and habits he followed as closely as he could. "Curley No. 2," as he was called, nearly got the party into serious trouble by wanting to shoot a too-inquisitive miner, and was only prevented from so doing by "Curley Bill" himself, who took him by the nape of his neck and shook him as a dog does a rat.
Mr. Sandham has visited the West India Islands, the Azores, Italy, France, Germany, and Holland. He is a Charter member of the Royal Canadian Academy, and President Roosevelt accorded him the signal honour of selecting him to illustrate his book of hunting adventures.
MR. HENRY SANDHAM, WHO, IN ATTEMPTING TO RESCUE A DROWNING MINER, NEARLY LOST HIS OWN LIFE.
From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry.
Among his varied experiences Mr. Sandham has had several narrow escapes from death, and on one occasion in particular the perilous position in which he was placed might well have been a creation of the brain of Edgar Allan Poe rather than an experience from real life.
It was in August, 1882, during a sketching tour in California, that Mr. Sandham met with this alarming adventure. Accompanied by a brother artist, he paid a visit to the Little Sailor Mine, which is situated on a spur of the Sierra Madre Mountains, by the side of the Sacramento River, some fifty miles from San Francisco. The manager of the mine, in which hydraulic power is used, invited Mr. Sandham to accompany him on the occasion of the monthly clean-up of the gold in the tunnels. Always anxious to add to his store of information, the artist gladly accepted the invitation, asking at the same time that his friend might join the party, to which request the manager readily assented.
On the following day Mr. Sandham was on the spot at the appointed time, eager for what was to him an entirely novel experience. His friend, however, was late, and he decided to wait for him. As subsequent events proved, Mr. Sandham owes his life entirely to this trivial incident! The manager and his staff of assistants, anxious to start the work of cleaning up without delay, thereupon entered the tunnel, which had been cut through a high bluff to allow the water a free passage to the Sacramento River, several thousand feet below the level of the mine.
While waiting for his friend, Mr. Sandham employed his time in making a sketch of the only "monitor" (delivery-nozzle) then working, and the man in charge of it sauntered over to watch the progress of his facile pencil. Before his sketch was finished Mr. Sandham noticed that the "monitor," which had hitherto been throwing a regular jet of water at a terrific pressure, by means of which the solid rock was literally washed away, had become spasmodic in its action. Curious to learn the reason, he called the miner's attention to the fact. To his utter astonishment the engineer received his remark with the utmost consternation, and, throwing up his hands with a gesture of despair, shrieked:—
"Good heavens! The pipe has burst, and all the boys will be drowned!"
With that he at once dashed off frantically in the direction of the signal-station to order the water to be turned off at the upper reservoir, which was situated many hundred feet above the level of the mine, and was fed from the Sierra Madre Mountains, twenty miles away. Meanwhile Mr. Sandham realized that with the bursting of the pipe the tunnel must have been instantly flooded with an immense volume of water, and that the unfortunate manager and his staff were caught like rats in a trap. At that very moment they were, without a doubt, fighting desperately for their lives. With characteristic energy Mr. Sandham's one desire was to help in the work of rescue, but the very thought of the men's seemingly hopeless plight left him with a sickening feeling of impotency. He quickly decided, however, that the one place where he might be of use was at the outer end of the tunnel, from which the escaping waters rushed headlong over a precipice, to fall in a series of frightful leaps some thousands of feet into the river far below. To reach this spot Mr. Sandham had to climb the high bluff through which the tunnel was cut, and descend the almost perpendicular cliff on the other side. The climb itself was no mean test of a man's agility and nerve, but Mr. Sandham has both, and he was soon at the summit. As to how he got down the other side Mr. Sandham says he is to this day not quite clear, but judging from his battered and bleeding condition and the state of his clothing afterwards he thinks he must have done so by alternately falling and sliding.
"MONITORS" AT WORK—THE PRESSURE OF THE WATER IS SO TERRIFIC THAT THE SOLID ROCK IS LITERALLY WASHED AWAY. OUR ILLUSTRATION IS FROM A DRAWING MADE BY MR. SANDHAM WHILE IN CALIFORNIA.
Exhausted and breathless, he finally reached the short section of the flume, immediately under the outlet of the tunnel, leading to the edge of the precipice. At that instant a dark object shot like a ball from a cannon out of the cavern into the flume, and was carried along and swept over the edge of the cliff. Mr. Sandham discovered afterwards that this was the body of the ill-fated mine-manager. After an interval of a few seconds another body was fired out of the tunnel, and as it swept down the flume towards him Mr. Sandham instinctively reached out his arm to catch it. Next instant his hand was grasped with a convulsive grip, the man's body swung out to the rush of the water, and Mr. Sandham knew that on the strength of his arm depended a human life.
At first he thought he could easily rescue the man by hauling him out of the water, but he speedily found that this was impossible, and that he was not only fighting for a fellow-creature's life but for his own as well. His position on the side of the flume afforded him but a precarious hold, and such was the terrific force of the racing torrent of water as it threatened to tear the drowning miner from his grasp that Mr. Sandham realized that he was not only powerless to pull the man out, but that he himself was in imminent danger of being pulled in. Once at the mercy of the rushing waters, no power on earth could save the pair of them from an awful death.
"NEXT INSTANT HIS HAND WAS GRASPED WITH A CONVULSIVE GRIP."
It is vastly to Mr. Sandham's credit that even in this dire extremity he had no thought of releasing his grip of the man's hand in order to save his own life. At the same time, any such intention on his part would have been futile, for the frenzied miner, with the fear of death strong upon him, held him in such a vice-like grip that it was perfectly clear they must both share the same fate, be it life or death.
The struggle was a grim one, and, putting forth every effort he was capable of, the artist strove hard to pull the man out of danger. His frantic endeavours, however, were unavailing, and he felt himself gradually slipping—drawn irresistibly into the mill-race, which would sweep him and the hapless miner down the flume and hurl them over the precipice to meet a frightful death on the rocks far below. Meanwhile his companion in danger was powerless to help himself, but the agony of mind he endured was vividly portrayed on his drawn and ghastly face as he fought with all his strength against the onrush of the current.
Slipping, slipping, inch by inch, until his body overhung the water to a perilous extent, Mr. Sandham felt instinctively that his strength was failing him. A few seconds more and the end must come! A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and his arm felt as though it was being wrenched from its socket. And then, suddenly, the dreadful strain lessened. The miner, in his frantic struggles, had managed to grasp the side of the flume, and, with this added opposition to the force of the water, Mr. Sandham was able to recover his balance, and at last, with an almost superhuman effort, he dragged the man from the water.
Their peril did not end here, however, for the force he had exerted landed the engineer on top of the artist, and in their nervous excitement the pair clutched each other and rolled over towards the precipice. The rocks sloped sharply down to the edge, and for the second time within the space of a few seconds they were in actual danger of their lives, for the impetus their bodies had acquired carried them down until their heads were actually hanging over the chasm. "There was no earthly reason why we should stop there," says Mr. Sandham, "save that Providence so ordered it." But stop they did, and in a few minutes they were able to crawl back exhausted to a place of safety, where they lay unable to move, speak, or even think for some considerable time. At length the miner sat up and said in a dazed, monotonous voice, "The boss is gone dead, drowned like a rat in a hole. Poor beggar, he was to have gone East to-morrow—he had made his pile. He was going back to his wife and kids. And I should have died with him if you had not caught hold of me." Then his mind seemed to clear and he exclaimed, "Say, stranger, what particular kind of fool are you, anyway? Because, if I had missed my clutch on the flume side when I got my grip on your arm, we would both be down there, ground up into tailings. Shake, stranger."
He held out a huge, hairy hand, and Mr. Sandham realized that he had received a Western miner's heartfelt thanks for the saving of his life.
The water had now been turned off at the reservoir and, the furious torrent being thus reduced to a mere trickle, all further danger to those in the mine was over. The miner's convulsive grip and the terrific strain of the current left Mr. Sandham with a crushed hand and badly-wrenched shoulder, the effects of which he felt for many months.
Looking back to-day on his adventure Mr. Sandham says that the point most vividly impressed on his memory is the fact that if he had not waited for his friend he would have been caught with the others in the flooding of the mine. Naturally, as the guest of the manager, who had gone on ahead of the party, he would have been close to him at the time of the disaster and would undoubtedly have shared his terrible fate. The rest of the party, being near a manhole, luckily made their escape—all except the foreman, who had pluckily allowed his men to go first. His chivalry nearly cost him his life, for he was too late to save himself and was caught in the flood. It was he whom Mr. Sandham so pluckily rescued.
Among the artists who have contributed to The Wide World, one of the most familiar names is undoubtedly that of Mr. Alfred Pearse, whose well-known signature, "A. P.," appeared in the very first number of the magazine.
Mr. Pearse has met with such an extraordinary number and variety of accidents and adventures during his career that he says, "There is no doubt that by all the laws of chance I ought not to be here, but killing seems to agree with me."
His list of casualties is an extraordinary one. He has been nearly drowned three times, and has had concussion of the brain more than once. He has fallen off the tops of omnibuses—on one occasion through the bus skidding when he was on his way to Cowes to make a sketch of Queen Alexandra's pet dogs. This resulted in his being paralyzed in the legs for six months, and one of his most cherished possessions is a kindly letter of sympathy from Her Majesty, expressing her hopes for his speedy recovery. Mr. Pearse has been drugged, poisoned, and shot, has fallen down Beachy Head, and been knocked down and injured by runaway horses and motor-cars. He has slipped between a moving train and the platform, has been within an ace of falling over a precipice in the Alps, has been chased by wild bulls, been blind for two days (the after-effects of a red spider bite), and had his left shoulder put out of joint. It is perhaps permissible, therefore, to refer to him as the most "accidental" man in the world.
Mr. Pearse's alarming list of mishaps, however, does not appear to have affected him in any way, for he is to-day as full of vigour and spirits as many a man of half his years and considerably less than half his accidents.
But there is one particular experience in his life which Mr. Pearse confesses stands out above all others in sheer intensity of horror and nerve-racking anguish—an occasion when he was absolutely and entirely at the mercy of a raving lunatic. There are, it is safe to say, few men who have been so near death and have survived the ordeal.
MR. ALFRED PEARSE, WHO WAS SUSPENDED OVER THE WELL OF A DEEP STAIRCASE BY A MADMAN.
From a Photo. by Talma, Melbourne.
This alarming adventure dates back to Mr. Pearse's early manhood, and had its inception in the introduction into his family circle of a certain individual who, for obvious reasons, we shall refer to in this narrative as Mr. X——.
Mr. Pearse first made the acquaintance of Mr. X—— owing to the interest he manifested in the affairs of the church at which his family attended. Mr. X—— soon began to show a considerable liking for Mr. Pearse, and the close friendship which ensued led to the latter's father inviting Mr. X—— to his house, where he soon became a welcome visitor. He was undoubtedly an interesting personality, although even at this time he was regarded as being somewhat strange in his manner and subject to hallucinations. For instance, he once declared that he had caused the death of his wife, and also that he took a delight in poisoning his neighbours' dogs and then offering a reward for the apprehension of the poisoner. These wild statements, however, were received with pity rather than credence.
Mr. X—— was, according to his own account, an Australian, and in appearance was gaunt, large-headed, and glaring-eyed, with a scanty beard and moustache. He stood well over six feet in height, and was evidently of immense muscular strength.
Although a man of professedly religious inclinations, his actions were not always in keeping with his words; and Mr. Pearse, when visiting him at his rooms, would often find him raving like a madman, reviling himself and those with whom his past life had been spent. On one of Mr. Pearse's visits he found Mr. X—— almost delirious with laughter, owing to the fact that his servant was seriously ill after drinking some of his master's whisky, into which Mr. X——, suspecting that the man was in the habit of helping himself, had put some laudanum.
On the other hand, for all his evident madness or wickedness, there was a good side to his character, and Mr. Pearse once saw him knock down a bully who had insulted an old man; while on another occasion he interfered to protect a woman from the brutal assault of her husband. It was simply for this reason that Mr. Pearse endeavoured to befriend him, although at times his conduct was such as to strain their relations almost to breaking-point.
Unfortunately, X——'s conduct went from bad to worse, until at length he gained for himself an unenviable notoriety throughout the neighbourhood. Mr. Pearse was still stanch to his ill-guided friend and ready to welcome him in his home, but his father, having regard to his son's welfare, could not but regard their friendship with considerable misgivings, and on one of X——'s periodical visits he was reluctantly compelled to forbid him the house. X—— received the ultimatum in sullen silence, and with a vindictive scowl on his face he took his departure.
Mr. Pearse was at the time studying wood-engraving with Messrs. Nicholls and Aldridge at 13, Paternoster Row, and one afternoon shortly afterwards he was considerably surprised when Mr. Nicholls came into the office and said, "Who is that madman sitting on the stairs?"
Naturally enough the young artist's first thoughts were of Mr. X——, and he immediately ran out on to the landing to investigate. There, sure enough, seated on the top stair, was the familiar figure of X——, wearing a "wideawake" hat and Inverness cape.
They were on the top floor of the building, and there was a large well staircase with a sheer drop of sixty feet straight down to the hall below. Mr. X——, whose eyes were staring wildly and whose every feature was working convulsively, dropped his hat and umbrella at sight of Mr. Pearse, and without a word seized him by the collar of his coat and the left arm and forced him towards the banisters. So sudden was the onslaught that the young man had no time even to call for assistance, but he nevertheless realized his peril and struggled desperately in the grip of the madman. Mr. Pearse was not only young but slight of build for his age, and despite his efforts he was quite powerless in the hands of X——, who, with the almost supernatural strength of a maniac, lifted him, apparently without effort, clean over the banisters, and held him suspended in mid-air over the abyss, with nothing but sixty feet of air between him and the stone floor below.
"HE HISSED IN A COLD, HARD VOICE, 'I ALWAYS REPAY! I AM GOING TO DROP YOU, ALFRED; AREN'T YOU AFRAID?'"
Even in this awful extremity the one idea uppermost in the artist's mind was as to his best means of escape. Could he clutch hold of anything before the crash came? Could he swing himself on to the next landing or cling to his captor? X——, however, was too cunning in his methods to allow of any such manœuvres, and Mr. Pearse soon realized that he was absolutely and entirely at the mercy of a raving lunatic, and that his life depended, small though the chance was, on his own coolness and resource.
At that critical moment, curiously enough, the young man's chief concern was for the welfare of a friend of his, also studying wood-engraving, who had followed him from the office, and who, with bulging eyes, open mouth, and face ghastly green with fright, was a horrified witness of the proceedings, pressing back against the panelled wall as if he wished he might vanish through it. Mr. Pearse devoutly hoped the young fellow would remain quiet, for the slightest movement, he felt convinced, would hasten his own end. Fortunately, however, he was too petrified by fear to be capable of action or speech.
Thoughts of his mother and her anguish at his tragic death next took possession of Mr. Pearse's mind, but his desire to live and the necessity for concentrating his thoughts on his terrible plight were suddenly brought back to him by Mr. X——, who hissed in a cold, hard voice, "I always repay! I am going to drop you, Alfred; aren't you afraid?"
Mr. Pearse was firmly convinced that his last hour had come, but summoning all his fortitude and exerting his will-power to the utmost he replied without the slightest hesitation, "No; for I know you will put me back."
The apparent coolness and indifference with which the young artist replied were without doubt the means of his salvation, for the madman, with a profound sigh—as though he was sorry, but was obliged to do so—pulled him over the banisters and dropped him on the landing. Then he fled, leaving his umbrella and hat behind him.
Mr. Pearse has never from that day seen or heard of his assailant, but even now the mere thought of the agonizing suspense he endured at his hands brings with it a shudder of horror.
MR. A. J. GOUGH, WHO NARROWLY ESCAPED DEATH AT THE HANDS OF AN INFURIATED COWBOY.
From a Photo. by Geo. Newnes, Ltd.
Mr. A. J. Gough is another Wide World artist—a Yorkshireman by birth—who has seen much of the world and taken part in many an exciting episode in wild and uncivilized places.
His early youth was spent in India, where his father—Mr. J. W. Gough, the architect—was building a palace for the Maharajah of Durbhungah; and there he met with his first adventure, when he lost himself in a tiger-infested jungle, and was only found by the search-party with much difficulty.
Mr. Gough subsequently went to America, where his experiences included encounters with alligators and rattlesnakes and disputes with "bad men" armed with bowie-knives and six-shooters. He has won fame as an amateur boxer, and is still a member of the Belsize Boxing Club, being also well known as a swimmer.
Mr. Gough has roughed it in Florida and Texas, and it was in the latter State that he experienced his most alarming adventure, on which occasion he was literally within half an inch of death.
It was at the hands of a cowboy known as "Harry" that he nearly lost his life. He made this man's acquaintance under the following singular circumstances. Mr. Gough and a friend of his were on their way to Florida from New York by steamer, and, as funds were low, had perforce to travel steerage. Among their fellow-passengers was a man whose appearance clearly denoted the cowboy, and who, although of rough exterior and manners, was evidently in some respects fastidious in his tastes.
He took occasion, early in the voyage, to find fault with the drinking water supplied in the steerage, which was contained in a huge tin tank. Calling the steward, he remarked:—
"That there tank isn't fit for a dog to drink out of, let alone a man."
"Isn't it, by gum?" replied the steward, sullenly. "Well, you can take it from me, it's all you'll get this voyage."
"Oh, it is, is it?" growled the cowboy, with an ugly look in his eyes. "I can tell you this, mister: if you expect me to drink out of that blamed horse-trough you are blamed well mistaken!"
"You can take it or leave it," replied the steward, with an oath; "and, if you are so mighty particular, why don't you go first class? You look like a millionaire, I must say," he added, offensively.
The cowboy was by this time livid with passion, and, fetching his "Winchester" from the cabin, he, without further reply, started blazing away at the tank, from which the water was soon spurting in all directions.
He had obviously completely lost all control of himself, and on an attempt being made to secure him he got his back against a bulkhead and threatened to shoot any man who came near him. If looks went for anything he certainly meant it, and as no one dare approach him he fairly "held up" the ship, or, at any rate, the steerage.
In this extremity the captain was appealed to. Seeing that he had a dangerous customer to deal with, and being anxious to avoid bloodshed, he pretended to side with the cowboy, telling him he was quite right in what he had done, and promising to see that the steerage passengers had a better supply of drinking water. Peace being thus restored the malcontent cooled down, and for the rest of the voyage he was quite good-natured and jolly, becoming the life and soul of the ship. In fact, he became so popular that even the captain and mate of the steamer joined in the merrymaking which took place in the steerage. Before the voyage was ended, Mr. Gough—then a youngster in his teens—and Harry the cowboy had established a firm friendship, and this was renewed some nine months later at Leesburg, in Florida, whither Mr. Gough had drifted in search of work. Harry was then ranching at Sumterville, in Texas, and having taken a violent fancy to Mr. Gough he offered to engage him to help with the horses, which offer, coming as it did at an opportune moment, was promptly accepted.
The cowboy was a man of about forty, tall and loosely built, with deep-set eyes, a bristly moustache, and a square, determined jaw. His huge, knotted limbs gave evidence of immense physical strength, and his brawny chest might well have served as a model for a sculptor. On special occasions he wore on his breast a small solid gold model of a bull, given him as a memento by a lady whose life he had saved, at the imminent risk of his own, by killing a mad bull that had attacked her, and he was exceedingly proud of his queer medal.
Albeit an exceedingly rough specimen of the uncut diamond, Harry the cowboy was, under normal conditions, of an unusually kind and even tender-hearted disposition, but, as this story will show, he was subject to sudden outbursts of temper, often for very trifling reasons, of absolutely appalling ferocity.
His ranch was situated in a lonely spot, and there for some months Mr. Gough lived a hard and open-air life, enjoying to the full, in the vigour of his youth and spirits, the arduous round of a rancher's daily toil. Although now and again his companion gave way to outbursts of temper, there was nothing to cause him any serious alarm.
Among his various duties, it fell to Mr. Gough's lot to cook the meals. On one occasion he had prepared a savoury dish of stew, which he and the cowboy, at the end of a particularly hard day's work, sat down to enjoy.
The manners of the establishment were, to say the least, of a rough-and-ready description, and the two hungry diners sat facing each other on the floor, helping themselves from a large iron pot.
Mr. Gough, as it happened, was the first to finish his repast, and in the exuberance of a passing fit of hilarity proceeded to execute a pas seul, hopping on each leg alternately round the bare apartment.
In the course of his antics he came quite close to the seated figure of the cowboy, who had just helped himself to a fresh plate of stew. Then, stumbling, he lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground, his foot crashing fairly into the middle of his friend's plate.
Mr. Gough at once scrambled to his feet and began to apologize in a jocular way for his accident. "Sorry, old chap," he exclaimed; "I hope I haven't spoilt your dinner."
But Harry was not at all disposed to take the matter as a joke, and with a dangerous glare in his eyes he half rose to his feet. "You clumsy brute!" he shouted, angrily. "Isn't it hard enough to earn a meal without you spoiling it with your infernal tricks, confound you?"
"Oh, all right," replied Gough; "there's plenty more, so you needn't get in a rage about it."
The cowboy was now absolutely beyond himself with passion, and with twitching lips and starting eyes he reached for his "gun." For the moment, in fact, he was quite demented and "saw red."
Fortunately, however, his revolver was not at his side. If it had been, Mr. Gough is firmly convinced that he would there and then have been shot dead.
Deprived of this weapon Harry leapt to his feet. "You don't spoil a man's dinner for nothing, I can tell you," he roared, "and, by Heaven, I'll spoil you, if I swing for it!" With that, carried away by an ungovernable fury of rage, he drew a gleaming bowie-knife from his belt and rushed at Gough, who was much his inferior in strength, and was, moreover, unarmed, thus being apparently entirely at his mercy.
To make matters worse, the cowboy was between the young artist and the door, so that escape that way was impossible. He has never yet been found wanting in pluck, however, and, although he felt that his last hour had surely come, he braced himself to meet the attack. A rapid glance in search of a weapon of defence showed that there was nothing within reach. His first impulse was to grapple with his assailant, but the odds were obviously too great, and there was nothing for it but to await the attack. This, mercifully, was not long in coming, for, with the unreasoning fury of a maniac, the cowboy made a dash for him with upraised knife.
A quick lunge, and the knife flashed downward. If ever a man stood face to face with death, Mr. Gough did during that awful second. Instinctively he ducked and dodged the blow, the deadly blade whizzing over his shoulder, missing him so narrowly that it actually grazed his head!
Mr. Gough was standing against the wall, and as the cowboy had literally hurled himself at him in the intensity of his passion, the knife, driven with all the power of Harry's immense strength, was buried deeply in the woodwork. So firmly was it embedded that its owner, in his blind fury, experienced considerable difficulty in extricating it. The consequent lull in the hostilities gave Mr. Gough his chance, and with a flying leap he dashed through the door and gained the open air. Once outside the tables were turned, for the cowboy was no match for the youngster when it came to a test of speed.
"THE KNIFE, DRIVEN WITH ALL THE POWER OF HARRY'S IMMENSE STRENGTH, WAS BURIED DEEPLY IN THE WOODWORK."
This he soon realized, and in a few moments he calmed down. As his brain cleared the frightful possibilities of his murderous outbreak dawned on him, and with sincere and abject repentance in every look he exclaimed:—
"Come inside, old chap. I was mad, and I'm sorry I made a fool of myself. Here's my hand on it. Shake."
Mr. Gough took the proffered hand and there and then made up the quarrel, but very wisely he decided not to risk the chances of another similar outburst, and so shortly afterwards he said good-bye to Harry the cowboy and secured work elsewhere.
(To be concluded.)
[Climbing in the "Land of Fire."]
By Sir Martin Conway.
Another of the famous Alpinist's fascinating articles, describing his attempt to reach the hitherto untrodden summit of Mount Sarmiento, the highest peak in desolate Tierra del Fuego.
To the ordinary reader the name of Tierra del Fuego probably suggests a region about as remote and unfamiliar as any outside the Arctic regions. Yet the country, far away though it is, is not really difficult of access. The Straits of Magellan are daily traversed by ocean-going steamers, all of which stop at Sandy Point on the mainland, just opposite this forbidding island. Thousands of voyagers annually pass through the Straits and, if the weather is fine, behold the snowy mountains on the southern horizon; but very few stop by the way, and fewer still ever cross to the inhospitable shore opposite. Nothing more bleak and uninviting, indeed, can be imagined than the shores of Magellan's Straits. The weather is generally abominable. Rain falls in soaking torrents. The lower slopes and flats are covered with dense, reeking forests. Higher up comes the snow, which gradually looms forth in a pallid, death-like whiteness out of the heavy clouds, very different in aspect from the splendid brilliancy of Alpine snows, standing forth against radiant, sunlit skies. In fine summer weather Alpine snows attract a man upwards; their loveliness seems to invite a visit. It is far otherwise in the Fuegian archipelago. There the great range of Andes sinks into the ocean, its peaks become islands, and its valleys are straits or fjords. You must go by water to the foot of each mountain, and the navigation is difficult and often dangerous. Not far away is the raging ocean, everlastingly tortured by storm and tempest. A black cloud roof generally passes overhead, dragging skirts of hail, rain, or snow over the reeking earth. Never is the whole round of view clear. Now one region is blotted out and now another. If the sun shines for a little while it is soon obscured, and storm succeeds after a short interval.
A TYPICAL LANDSCAPE IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO, GIVING SOME IDEA OF THE AWFUL DESOLATION OF THE COUNTRY.
From a Photograph.
To an explorer, nevertheless, this region has great attractions, owing to these very facts. There is so much to discover, the scenery is so unusual, and there is the possibility of adventure at every step. All is uncertain, and the way has almost to be felt. Moreover, if perchance a fine interval comes, the storm-riven, ice-sheathed landscape is so astounding, the effects of light in so dense and wet an atmosphere are so extraordinary, that it is impossible to resist their fascination. Add to all this the spice of danger which still remained when I was there, and perhaps still remains. The natives were distinctly hostile to the white man. They were few in number, an amphibious race living in booths, practically in the Stone Age so far as tools and weapons were concerned; not very dangerous foes, therefore, yet subtle, and delighted to slay a white man if they got the chance. They would overpower him in his sleep, or lie in wait for him in the dense forest, through which they can travel far faster than he can. Many a man has been killed by them with their stone or glass-pointed arrows, shot out of the dense bush from the distance of only a yard or two. When I was lying in a small launch off the foot of one of the mountains, in the blackest darkness of a stormy night, a canoe laden with such Indians crept silently up alongside in the shadow of overhanging trees. Had we not been on the alert they would have tried to rush our boat, but, finding that impossible, they as silently glided away; and no trace of them was anywhere discoverable when morning dawned, though no doubt they were hidden somewhere near at hand and kept us under close observation.
MOUNT SARMIENTO FROM COCKBURN CHANNEL.
From a Photograph.
As we came into the maze of channels which surround and penetrate the mountains, though we saw no Indians, we were aware that our coming was noticed, because at different points columns of smoke arose into the air. It is thus that the savages communicate with one another. They have a smoke language, and news is passed quickly and silently from group to group. It was only when we landed and climbed to a high point overlooking the channels that we realized what was going on; for then we were able to observe the columns of smoke in a dozen or more different places—signals of our movements, spreading gradually over the archipelago from family to family of scattered Indians.
THE GLACIER OF MOUNT SARMIENTO.
From a Photograph.
The great mountain in this part of the world is Mount Sarmiento. It is only seven thousand two hundred feet high, but its glaciers reach to the sea, so that it may be compared on an equality, from a climbing point of view, with Mont Blanc, if that be thought of as sunk into water up to the snow region. On clear days Sarmiento is visible to voyagers through Magellan's Straits. It is a glorious mountain, surrounded by many other noble peaks. In form it is of supreme beauty, and its surroundings are of the most romantic character. It was this peak, of course, that I desired to attempt, and I stopped at Sandy Point for that purpose. After much trouble I obtained the loan of a steam-launch for a few days, and set forth in the usual bad weather. We voyaged up various channels, between steep hillsides streaming with more waterfalls than, I think, can elsewhere exist in an equal area. In Cascade Reach, for instance, there are literally hundreds of them, succeeding one another every few yards.
After a day's steaming we reached the foot of our peak, and with much difficulty found a treacherous anchorage. There were clouds everywhere above and below, and wooded banks loomed dimly into view close at hand; but towards sunset there were signs of the weather clearing up. It was one of those slow midsummer sunsets of high latitudes, when the colour comes very gradually and fades equally slowly. At first only the icy base of the mountain was visible in the grey shadow of clouds, with the dark forest ring around it, and the calm, black water below. Presently a soft, pink light crept up the tumbled ruin of the glacier, higher and higher, as the mist dissolved, and revealed steep ice walls scarred by serrated ridges, and a great arête set with pinnacles of splintered rock. Some white points on the summit crest appeared, but a soft cloud floated just above them, enveloping the top. Suddenly—so suddenly that all who saw cried out—away above this cloud, surprisingly high, appeared a point of light, as it were a brightly glowing coal. The fiery glow crept down and down till we beheld the likeness of a great pillar of red fire. It was a tower of ice-crusted rock reflecting the bright afterglow of sunset. Regathered mists wrapped the glorious vision away even before it had begun to fade. We remained afloat on the calm water, wondering at the utter silence all around. Not a breath of air stirred, no stone fell, no avalanche slipped. The babbling glacier-torrent above alone broke the evening stillness.
THE VIEW FROM THE SLOPES.
From a Photograph.
Next day we landed to reconnoitre, and at two o'clock the following morning we set forth for our climb. We landed at the edge of a forest and had to force our way through it. The ground was a chaos of stones, the trees grew close together and were densely matted with other vegetation. The whole place was reeking wet and it was pitch-dark. We fought and tumbled our way through this hideous chaos as best we might, and in an hour or two got out on the other side, near the margin of a glacier. Here we could scramble along well enough over the moraine, and presently we had daylight to help us. Nothing was visible ahead; there was the ice-wall on one hand, rock-cliffs on the other. Presently it seemed better to climb the rocks, and we accordingly turned aside to scale them. They were not difficult, and we rose higher and higher, passing through another narrow belt of forest, where the trees grew in the chinks and crannies of a wall of rock polished by ice and precipitously steep. Above that came a floundering bog, and then at last a reasonable grass-slope that narrowed into a rock-ridge. The rock presently gave place in turn to snow, and led us on to the mass of the mountain.
The weather was now tolerably clear, though over all there hung a dark pall of cloud, through occasional holes in which shafts of solid-looking sunlight penetrated. Where we rested for breakfast we had a most striking view over desolate channels and still more desolate islands, a very labyrinth of waterways and mountain walls. We could see westwards to the ocean and northwards to the continent; the flat land of the northern part of Tierra del Fuego was at our feet.
Its great mountain backbone was behind us as we faced north. We looked along the face of it as along a wall, but all its crest was in the clouds. Looking down whence we had come we saw our boat like a little cork on the water. Also we could now look down into the water itself and discover the countless sunken rocks amongst which we had so casually navigated. There was one, only a short distance from our anchorage, close to which we must have steamed. These details, of course, are not charted; a navigator in such out-of-the-way places must take his luck.
From this point our way lay right up the great northern face of the peak, which is covered by an ice-cascade. This empties below into a huge glacier plateau or lake, which is drained by several glacier tongues, up one of which we had come. As we climbed on I kept looking round and gazing on the wonderful panorama, for it was obviously destined to be soon blotted out. Our way lay amongst huge seracs. Deep crevasses yawned all about, and occasionally we had to double back and forth to get ahead.
At last, however, we reached plainer going, traversing a steeper but less broken slope which led to the foot of a final pyramid of rock. But these rocks, unfortunately, we never actually reached, for the storm battalions from the north swept furiously down upon us, swallowing up the view before ever we reached the crest of the range whence we might have looked down into the dark hollow of Beagle Channel. The darkness in the north before the tempest fell upon us was truly appalling. As it advanced it seemed to devour the wintry world. The heavens appeared to be descending in solid masses, so thick were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. The black islands, the leaden waters, the pallid snows, and the splintered ice-encrusted peaks disappeared in the blackness of the storm, which enveloped us also, almost before we had realized that it was at hand. A sudden wind shrieked and whirled round our heads; hail was flung into our faces, and all the elements began to rage together. The ice-plastered rocks were now easily accounted for; we resembled them ourselves in a very few minutes. All landmarks vanished; the drifted snow itself was no longer distinguishable from the snow-filled air.
To advance under these appalling conditions was impossible. The one thing to be done, and done at once, was to secure our retreat before it was too late. How we raced downwards! Not till we gained the lower glacier did snow give place to rain, which soaked us to the skin and overflowed in a steady stream out of our boots. We floundered in swamps, tumbled through brushwood, and at last gained the shore, almost dead beat with toil, yet delighting in what had been, after all, an exhilarating experience. A boat came off to fetch us, and we were soon on board our steamer. Thus we did not reach the actual summit of Mount Sarmiento—that remains virgin, for I could not wait to try it again. Whoever climbs it will accomplish a great feat and will have a splendid experience. Some years have already passed since my attempt, however, and I have not heard of another. I suppose the inhabitants of Sandy Point have more urgent interests to attend to.
THE UNTRODDEN SUMMIT OF MOUNT SARMIENTO, WHICH THE AUTHOR WAS PREVENTED FROM REACHING BY A SUDDEN STORM.
From a Photograph.
[The Spider's Web.]
AN UNDERGRADUATE'S STRANGE STORY.
Told by "Cecil Addington" and Set Down by George A. Raper.
A remarkable drama of modern life, showing the pitfalls that lie in wait for well-connected and inexperienced young men, and that even to-day, in the heart of London, a man may go in peril of his life. For obvious reasons the names of the people concerned have been changed, but the correct names of all the parties have been supplied to us in confidence.
I write this record of a strange chapter in my life with a double motive. It may serve, firstly, as a warning to others who find themselves placed in what I once regarded as my enviable position. Secondly, it ought to have a wider usefulness in opening people's eyes to the very real dangers that lurk under the surface of London life. Had anyone told me, two years ago, that a man living in peaceful England could be in daily danger of assassination at the hands of an organized gang of villains, I should have found no words strong enough to express my disbelief. Still less would I have supposed that I, Cecil Addington, a strong, vigorous young Englishman, would ever go about in constant dread of murderous violence. Many who read my story will treat it as the outcome of a disordered imagination and refuse to believe that the forces of civilization are powerless to protect a man whose death has been deliberately planned. I wish I could share this belief; but, unfortunately, my experience points the other way. I have come to know that there are to-day, in London, men who would not hesitate to commit murder if it could be done without undue risk to themselves, and who have enough devilish ingenuity to reduce that risk almost to vanishing-point.
But I had better begin at the beginning and tell my story simply and straightforwardly, just as it happened, merely warning the reader that, though I am relating actual facts, I have, for obvious reasons, used fictitious names.
In May, 1906, having got away from Cambridge for a few days, I was enjoying myself in town. I was doing it in a very small way and under a sense of injustice, for I had nothing like the means at my disposal that I considered my due. In six months' time, on reaching my majority, I was to come into possession of thirty thousand pounds under my mother's will, and yet I had still to get along as best I might on a poor undergraduate's allowance from my father. He and I did not hit it off at all well. I was rather stage-struck, and had made up my mind that an actor's life was the life for me. He did not see it in that light, and was dead set on getting me into the Foreign Office, where, he argued, I could use my money and 'Varsity education to some purpose. If I had not been rather "green," and, I may as well admit, headstrong, I might have seen that he was right. Anyhow, we quarrelled, and he decided that, though he could not prevent me from committing what he called social suicide when I became my own master, he would at any rate put the financial screw on as long as he could. The result was that I found myself tied down to the smallest possible allowance, continued only on condition that I remained at Cambridge. I was plainly told, moreover, that if I were fool enough to throw up everything and go on the stage, I should have to exist as best I could. This gave me "furiously to think," as they say in France. I had sense enough to realize that budding actors do not fall on their feet at once, and that I should very likely be most unpleasantly hard up long before the blessed day came when I could open a bank account of my own. At the same time I was irritated at being kept in leading-strings, and my greatest desire was to find some way of circumventing my cautious parent.
In this frame of mind I set off to London one Friday to spend a week-end and a few pounds I happened to have in hand. Archie Hunter, one of my college chums, who was to have gone with me, managed to sprain his ankle the day before and had to stay indoors. I was half inclined to give up the expedition, but, chafing as I was under a sense of restraint, it seemed feeble to let my plans fall through on account of an absurd accident, and it was with a secret feeling of satisfaction at my own determination that I got out of the train at King's Cross, though I was beginning to feel that I might not enjoy myself so very much, after all, without a comrade.
I spent most of the afternoon hunting up fellows of my acquaintance in the West-end, and not finding them. Not knowing how to fill up the interval before dinner, I dropped into a well-known restaurant and sought solace in a whisky and soda and a cigarette. There were very few people in the bar—only a knot of two or three men discussing racing—and I sat, feeling a trifle lonely and not anticipating much fun for the evening. While I was cogitating the door opened and a well-dressed man came in. At the first glance I took him to be a retired Army officer. His hair and moustache were iron-grey, and, though he might have been well on the wrong side of forty, he looked every bit as active and supple as myself. His features were remarkably handsome, and he had an unmistakable air of good breeding, combined with the easy bearing of an experienced man of the world; in fact, he was just such a type as youngsters like myself secretly envy and take as their model. He glanced carelessly at me as he came in, ordered a whisky and soda, and, standing near me at the bar, took a long pull at his drink, after which he reached over the bar to take a match. As he did so his arm touched my glass and overturned it.
"HIS ARM TOUCHED MY GLASS AND OVERTURNED IT."
He was profuse in his apologies.
"How awfully careless of me!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. Hope I haven't spilt any of the stuff over your clothes?"
I answered that it was not of the slightest consequence, but he continued to excuse himself, and insisted on having my glass refilled, in spite of my protests. In another two minutes we were chatting away as if we had known each other for years. My new friend proved a delightful companion. He seemed to have been everywhere worth mentioning and to know all sorts of celebrities. He had a way of keeping the talk on the subjects which most interested me, and I felt a secret satisfaction at talking on equal terms with a man so much older and cleverer than myself. Although I did not realize it at the time, he was one of those accomplished conversationalists who do not appear to be saying much, but manage to make the other fellows think they can talk rather well. He soon found out that I was a Cambridge man, and as he turned out to be an old Cantab himself, that was another bond of union between us. We exchanged cards, and I found that his bore the name of "Captain Wyngate."
We got on so uncommonly well together that I was quite annoyed to find it was half-past seven, and that I should soon have to think about my solitary dinner.
As if divining my thoughts, my new acquaintance said:—
"What are you going to do this evening?"
I had to admit, rather against my will, that I had no particular plans and did not know what to do with myself.
"You had better come and dine with me," he said. "I haven't anything on to-night, and we might just as well have a bit of dinner together and go somewhere afterwards, if you feel inclined."
The invitation was given so frankly and cordially that I accepted it without any fuss, being only too glad of the prospect of a cheerful evening instead of mooning about by myself. It never occurred to me that I knew nothing whatever about Captain Wyngate, and that he might not prove so reputable an acquaintance as he looked.
We took a cab and drove to a queer little French restaurant, quite unlike anything I had ever seen, in a back street in Soho. In a general way I regarded the typical London restaurant as a big, showy establishment, with a profusion of electric lights, flowers on the tables, and everyone in evening dress. The place chosen by Captain Wyngate was entirely different. It was up two pairs of very narrow stairs covered with a red carpet, and seemed to be made up of quite poky little rooms. We were shown into one containing only a small table set for two, a sideboard, and a sofa.
"They seem to be expecting us," I remarked, with a laugh.
"Oh, they know my ways here," Wyngate replied, as he proceeded to question the waiter in French, which was a good deal too fluent for me to follow.
There was a surprisingly elaborate menu for such a little hole of a place, and it was with feelings of considerable satisfaction that I plunged into the dinner. It was admirably cooked and beautifully served—in fact, it was about the best dinner I had ever tasted; and by the time I had absorbed my second glass of Burgundy I was feeling particularly well-disposed towards humanity in general and my host in particular. Without seeming to question me at all, he showed such a friendly interest in me that the champagne found us on quite an intimate footing. Before the coffee and cigars came, and the waiter had left us alone, Captain Wyngate knew all about me, and I had a strong impression that he was preordained to be my guide, philosopher, and friend.
When I bemoaned my fate at being kept on short commons until I came of age, he smiled.
"You needn't unless you like," he said.
"I've heard of fellows borrowing on their expectations," I replied; "but it costs a lot, doesn't it? And I don't know anything about that sort of thing."
"Oh, it's simple enough," he remarked, casually, flicking the ash off his cigar.
"I might get into some old Jew's clutches," I remarked.
"My dear fellow," he replied, "all those stories about modern Shylocks are rubbish. You must have been reading about the man in Balzac who was fool enough to take a bit in cash and the rest in stuffed crocodiles. All that sort of thing is over now, and if you have anything solid in the way of expectations you can always raise money on them from reliable people."
Then, as if the subject did not interest him, he began to talk about something else; but he had set me thinking. Half-a-dozen times at least I was on the point of asking him to help me, but I did not want him to think me hopelessly inexperienced in business matters. At length I said:—
"Do you know, I have been thinking of raising a little money, and now that I am in town I might as well see about it."
"If you have made up your mind," he said, "there is no use in losing time. To whom do you intend to go?"
This was a poser. I had the vaguest possible ideas about money-lenders, and did not know the name of a single member of the fraternity.
Before I could find an answer he observed:—
"There's Jackson, in X—— Street. Why not try him? I haven't had to visit him myself, but I know about him, and I will go and see him with you if you like."
"That would be awfully kind of you," I said, gratefully.
"Of course," he added, "it's of no use unless you can tell him something definite about the property. He doesn't care about wasting time on little bits of business, and I suppose you would like to have a good pocketful of money."
I replied by giving him all the information I had about my expectations. He listened attentively, asked two or three questions, said he did not think there would be any difficulty, and made an appointment for us to meet the following morning. This done, he called for the waiter, paid the bill, and we spent the rest of the evening at a music-hall. I returned to my hotel charmed with my new acquaintance, and feeling a warm glow of satisfaction at the thought that in a few days I should have as much as I wanted to spend instead of having to reckon with every shilling.
Next morning, Saturday, I woke in my little sixth-floor bedroom to see the sun shining brilliantly, and it was in excellent spirits that I dressed and went down to breakfast. As usual in the season, the hotel was full, and few seats were vacant in the lofty and lavishly-decorated hall, still called, by virtue of old custom, the coffee-room. The cheerful hum of conversation, the noiseless dexterity of the waiters darting to and fro, the comfort and luxury of the surroundings, increased my sense of enjoyment, and while waiting for my coffee and kidneys I began to think what an uncommonly good time I might have in London. What a fool I had been not to think of raising money before! It must be simple enough, judging by what Captain Wyngate had said, and he seemed to know pretty well what he was talking about.
I had barely finished breakfast when the captain himself came into the coffee-room, much to my surprise. He explained that he had some business near my hotel, and that he had dropped in on the chance of finding me, so that we could go to X—— Street together, instead of meeting as we had originally planned. I was afraid he had put himself out of his way for my convenience, but this he would not admit, and I had to put down his visit as another proof of his obliging disposition. Off we went in a hansom to X—— Street, and were lucky enough to find Jackson disengaged.
He was not at all the type of man I had expected to see. I had imagined a rather grimy and snuffy-looking individual, sitting in a little, dark room, surrounded by safes and deed-boxes. Mr. Jackson, on the other hand, was quite a gentleman: tall, well-groomed, clean-shaven, and wearing an immaculate frock-coat. Captain Wyngate was kind enough to explain why I had come. After this he got up and was about to leave the room, and I had some difficulty in getting him to stay and help me out. This was lucky, as Jackson proved a hard nut to crack. He was very polite, but raised so many objections that I began to despair of doing anything with him. It was very risky, he said, to lend money to minors, as he knew to his cost; and then, how was he to be sure I was to get as much as thirty thousand pounds? Trusts did not always produce what was expected of them. Finally, after asking a lot of questions about my family and the date of the will, he promised to make inquiries and give me an answer at three o'clock in the afternoon.
Had I known more about business it would probably have struck me as peculiar that a few hours should be considered enough to investigate a transaction of which the lender was supposed to know next to nothing. In the light of subsequent knowledge I am convinced that the urbane Mr. Jackson knew all about the matter long before he set eyes on me, and that the postponement until the afternoon was a mere blind. In happy unconsciousness of this I accepted an invitation to luncheon from Captain Wyngate, who kindly expressed his intention of seeing me through the business. And a very excellent lunch it was, too—just the kind of thing to make a man feel at peace with himself and all the world. Three o'clock saw us back at Jackson's office.
"Well, Mr. Addington," he said, "I have looked into the matter, and I think I shall be able to accommodate you."
"I'm very glad to hear it," I returned, joyously.
"Of course, I need not tell anyone of your intelligence and education," he continued, "that this is a rather irregular sort of transaction, and very risky for me. If you were to take advantage of being a minor and should go back on your word, where should I be?"
I assured him there was no danger of anything of the kind happening.
"I could not do business of this kind," he continued, "with anyone who was not a gentleman, and in whom I did not feel the fullest confidence."
He said this so impressively that I was quite touched—the champagne at luncheon was certainly very good—and inwardly decided that a money-lender was just as likely as anyone else to be a good fellow.
"But," he continued, "you must remember the risk, as I said before, and that I have heavy expenses (he didn't mention what they were), but I will advance you five thousand pounds on the spot, if you will undertake to repay me eight thousand pounds when you come of age. The only other condition that I make is that you insure your life in my favour, so that in case anything happened to you I should not lose my money."
This proposal rather took my breath away, and I stared at him blankly.
"I can assure you," he said, with a bland smile, "that these are really very favourable terms. Plenty of other gentlemen in my line would refuse to take the risk at any price. Perhaps you would like to talk it over with this gentleman?" indicating Captain Wyngate.
Without waiting for an answer, he rose and left the room. I cast an appealing glance at the captain.
"My dear fellow," he said, "you mustn't think that I want to advise you against your own interests, but you might do worse than take this offer."
"Three thousand pounds is a lot of interest," I urged.
"It's only a small slice out of your thirty thousand," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Jackson treats you like a gentleman, and will hand the money over at once. If you go to someone else you may be kept hanging on for weeks and charged all sorts of fees and expenses."
"All the same——" I began.
"What's the use of haggling about a hundred or two?" Wyngate interrupted. "You won't save anything in the long run."
His tone and look implied that he considered I was trying to drive a hard bargain. To be thought mean by this superior being, who had shown himself so friendly and hospitable, was more than I could endure, and I hastily replied that he was quite right, and that we might as well settle the affair at once.
Jackson opportunely returning at this juncture, I signified my acceptance of his terms. A bond and an insurance proposal which had been made out beforehand were produced, and I signed them.
"Shall I cross the cheque for payment through your own bank, Mr. Addington?" Jackson asked, bringing out his cheque-book. "But perhaps," he added, before I had to confess that I had no banking account, "you would prefer to have part of the money in cash. A thousand pounds in notes and the rest in a cheque? Certainly. If you will kindly count the notes in this bundle, I think you will find them all right. Thank you, Mr. Addington. My clerk will call upon you with any other papers there may be for you to sign."
I walked out with the money in my pocket and my troubles before me.
My doings during the next few weeks were not exactly what might be called judicious, but what can be expected from a youth suddenly let loose in London with heaps of money and nobody to restrain him? I am quite willing to admit that I was a fool, but I dare say a great many other people would not have proved much wiser if they had found themselves in similar circumstances. Without suspecting it, I was a sort of Faust in the clutches of a modern Mephistopheles. As Captain Wyngate had given me the Open Sesame, he naturally stepped into the position of familiar friend and adviser. Of course, Cambridge saw me no more. I took up my abode in furnished rooms close to Piccadilly, and was delighted when Captain Wyngate accepted an invitation to leave his hotel and share my quarters. Under his guidance I began to enjoy myself exceedingly. The gaps in my knowledge of the Metropolis filled up very quickly, and I think I could pass a pretty stiff examination about the places of amusement, recognised and unrecognised, in London. Wyngate and I were constantly together, and he introduced me to a good many men who seemed, like himself, to have no particular occupation except killing time as agreeably as possible. He generally picked up these acquaintances on race-courses, in hotel bars, music-halls, and other public places. We did not go to any private houses. Captain Wyngate voted dances slow, and I was enjoying myself so much under his guidance that I was not inclined to differ from him.
In the enclosure at Kempton Park he introduced me to a strikingly handsome and stylish young lady, Miss Violet Alexander, and took the earliest opportunity of telling me in a confidential whisper that she was an actress and immensely clever. Both these statements I afterwards found to be true in a sense; I did not understand at the time. She was extremely gracious, and I was much flattered when she invited me to take a cup of tea with her at her flat in Bedford Park. She soon fascinated me completely, and after my second visit I was madly in love, or thought I was. Captain Wyngate, to whose experience I resorted as a matter of course, suggested that a handsome present would advance matters very materially. He kindly undertook to find out from the lady what would be most acceptable to her, and the result was the transfer of a lace dress and a diamond star to Miss Violet's abode, and a hole of seven hundred pounds in my bank account. Both these presents were purchased (very much above their real value, as I afterwards found out) at shops recommended by Captain Wyngate, on the ground that they were "the" place for such things, and that gifts were always more appreciated when the lady knew they came from the very best places. My gifts certainly did not disgrace even the wardrobe of Miss Violet Alexander. They made her even more gracious than before, and but for the rude awakening that came soon afterwards there is no knowing what further follies she would have made me commit.
One night, when we were to have gone to a new play at the Gaiety, the captain felt out of sorts and decided to stay indoors with a book and a pipe. I returned home rather late, and, as I passed his room, I heard choking, inarticulate sounds. Thinking he must be ill, I opened the door quietly and looked in. He was lying in bed, tossing uneasily and muttering in his sleep. While I waited—wondering if I ought to wake him—his muttering went on, broken here and there by an intelligible word.
"'HANDS OFF!' HE ALMOST SHOUTED, AND STARTED UP IN BED."
"The Rigi—Came for your health—Hate looking over precipices, do you?—Oh, don't be a baby!—Two thousand feet down—Ah, I've done it!"
Beads of perspiration started out on his forehead, and he groaned as if suffering agonies.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Hands off!" he almost shouted, and started up in bed, a horrible expression of fear on his face.
"Why, Wyngate, old chap, you seem to be having a first-class nightmare," I remarked.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he replied, not very graciously. "What are you doing here?"
"You were talking in your sleep," I told him, "and tossing about all over the place."
"That's very strange indeed," he said, anxiously. "I'm seldom troubled with nightmares."
"Yes," I continued, "you thought you were at the top of a precipice in Switzerland with another fellow, and threw him over."
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, roughly.
"Weren't you dreaming about precipices?" I asked.
"Nothing of the kind!" he snapped. "I have slept badly, that was all, and you needn't have roused me."
"Sorry, old chap," I rejoined, and left the room, rather offended by his unusual surliness.
Next morning Wyngate said nothing about his nightmare, but the effects did not seem to have left him. He found fault with the breakfast, made irritable remarks, and, though he was not actually rude, revealed a side of his character which was new to me. This was, in fact, the commencement of altered relations between us. I began to notice in his conversation covert sneers at my youth and inexperience, though this did not in the least prevent him from borrowing a few pounds from time to time when a bill came in. The money would not have mattered at all had he remained the good fellow he had seemed at first, but it was a different matter now, and I began to chafe.
Things went on like this for a couple of weeks. Then one day Hicks, my servant, came to me with three of Captain Wyngate's tradesmen's bills.
"The captain," said Hicks, "won't be back till to-night, sir, and he told me to ask you if you would kindly pay these for him."
This was the last straw. To be sneered at by a man who was living under my roof, and then to be expected to pay his tailor and bootmaker, was more than I could stand. With as much composure as I could command, I told Hicks that Captain Wyngate would settle the accounts when he returned. I then sat down and wrote my guest a note, in which I told him what I thought of him, and added that, as he would probably prefer other quarters, Hicks would pack up his things as soon as he pleased. After this I went out, spent the afternoon watching a cricket match at Lord's, and did not return home until late, when, to my great relief, Captain Wyngate's room was vacant.
"What did the captain say when he read my note?" I asked Hicks.
"He only laughed, sir," was the reply, "and said he was going away for a change of air."
It was a relief to find that my Old Man of the Sea, as I had now come to regard the fascinating captain, had been unseated so easily, and I went to bed feeling decidedly pleased with myself, and quite convinced that I had heard the last of him. This fond delusion, however, was shattered the very next day by the arrival of a crop of his bills, including those of the day before, all brought by men with instructions to ask for payment. I was for indignantly repudiating all liabilities, but Hicks deferentially suggested that this might create a bad impression; and on reflection I saw that a blunt refusal might bring some of my own creditors about my ears rather sooner than I had bargained for. I therefore told Hicks to say the accounts would be settled next day, and meanwhile sent him to the hotel at which Captain Wyngate was staying before he joined me, with a chillingly polite note requesting him to settle with his tradespeople. Hicks came back with the cheerful information that the captain had gone away and left no address. Not knowing what else to do, I paid. The amount was not large—some fifty pounds, in fact—but signing the cheques was a very bitter pill.
Being now left to my own resources, it occurred to me to look into my finances, and I discovered to my amazement that I had run through more than four thousand pounds in two months! There were also accounts owing, and it dawned upon me that at my present rate of living I should be without a penny long before my twenty-first birthday arrived.
"Bah!" I said to myself. "I can always borrow again if I run short." And I tried to dismiss the matter from my mind. I suppose, though, there must have been a thin strain of caution, probably inherited from a Scotch grandfather, underneath my foolishness, for I could not shake off a feeling that I was drifting on to the rocks. I went to see Violet Alexander, with a vague hope of getting sympathy, but was told she had gone out. I called again and again, with the same result. Could it be that she did not want to see me?
In this position, ashamed to make it up with my father, and not having a single friend to whom I cared to turn, I did what I ought to have done long ago. I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields to lay my case before the family solicitors.
"Mr. Benedict is away, sir, but his son, Mr. Charles, will see you," was the reply to the announcement of my name, and I was ushered into the presence of Mr. Charles Benedict. He did not correspond at all to my idea of a family solicitor. He was faultlessly dressed, and did not look much older than myself, but it did not take me long to discover that his knowledge of town was as extensive and peculiar as Mr. Weller's.
"Ah! Captain Wyngate," he repeated, when I mentioned the name of my evil genius. "Tall, fine-looking man, with a grey moustache, isn't he?"
"Yes," I replied, in surprise. "Do you know him?"
"I should say that he was pretty well known," rejoined Mr. Charles Benedict, with a smile. "But perhaps you had better go on with your story."
Encouraged by his interest in my troubles, I went ahead and gave him the main lines of the narrative, though I could not yet bring myself to disclose all the details of my weakness. When I had answered his last question he drew a long breath and said:—
"Well, Mr. Addington, I congratulate you!"
"What about?" I asked. "It seems to me I am in a pretty bad mess."
"So you are," he replied, cheerfully. "But I was congratulating you on coming to us before it was too late. You have had a narrow escape. Did you never suspect what kind of man Captain Wyngate is?"
"Not until those bills came in," I replied.
"The bills," remarked Mr. Benedict, "are a mere trifle. Captain Wyngate is one of the most dangerous men in London. The police have had their eye upon him for years, but he is so clever that they have never been able to catch him in the act. He lives on inexperienced young men with money."
"Like me, I suppose?"
"Yes, but you are not the first by a very long way. Your case is quite in his best style. He has goodness knows how many accomplices, quite a syndicate of sharks, and they have all sorts of shady people in their pay. I have no doubt whatever that he knew all about your money affairs and had a look at you at Cambridge without your knowledge; also that he knew of your coming to London and had you tracked to the bar where he made your acquaintance by upsetting your glass. Jackson is in the syndicate, and you may be sure our friend the captain would have had a good slice out of the three thousand pounds they reckoned to make out of you; but I think we can stop their little game."
Needless to say, these disclosures staggered me considerably.
"Then Captain Wyngate is nothing but a swindler?" I asked.
"One of the worst type," answered the solicitor. "I don't think he would stick at murder if it was worth while and could be done safely. He was mixed up in the death of Charlie Byfleet, a rich young fellow who went to Switzerland with him and was killed by falling down a precipice. Many people suspected that Wyngate got possession of Byfleet's money and papers and then pushed him over the cliff."
"That explains the nightmare!" I exclaimed, and I told my adviser of the scene in Wyngate's bedroom.
"Yes; no doubt he has to do it over again in his sleep now and then," said Mr. Benedict, "but that's all the punishment he has had. He swore it was an accident, and there was no evidence against him. He has been keeping quiet since that affair, but he must have thought it had blown over by this time as he has begun again on you. I suppose he kept you to himself as long as he could?"
"He never took me to see anybody except Violet Alexander, the actress," I said.
"Oh, indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Benedict, smiling. "This is interesting. Did you find her very agreeable?"
"Charming," I replied, ingenuously.
"Wasn't she a rather expensive acquaintance?"
I was obliged to confess that she was, and mentioned the presents.
"Of course, as you were so friendly with Wyngate, you had to be nice to his wife," observed the solicitor.
"What?" I exclaimed, in astonishment.
"She is a very useful helpmate for him," continued the lawyer, smiling compassionately at me. "They have hunted together for years and made lots of money. Have you never heard of Violet Alexander's solid silver bath? You may be quite sure the lace dress and the diamond star have gone back to the shops where Wyngate made you buy them, and that he and Violet pocketed a nice little commission on the transaction. The shopkeepers are just as much in the gang as Wyngate and Jackson are. Wyngate stayed with you until he saw you were getting restive; then he ran up a few bills for you to pay and cleared out. You will not see him again until Jackson's bill falls due."
"And then?" I asked.
"Then there will be ructions," said Mr. Benedict, cheerfully.
Here he took up a paper-knife, played with it carelessly, and looked as if he expected me to find a way out of the tangle.
"Great Scot!" I exclaimed. "Shall I have to pay these villains eight thousand pounds?"
"You certainly would if you had not come to us in time," was the reply.
"Then I am in time?" I asked, much relieved.
"Yes," said Mr. Benedict; "we can save your money, if you hand it over to someone else."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Simply this. You must execute a deed placing your property, from the moment you become entitled to it, in the hands of trustees, who will pay you, let us say, three or four hundred a year out of the income. You will be unable to touch the capital. When Mr. Jackson presents his little bill, you refer him to your trustees, who will repay him his five thousand pounds with strict legal interest. Come back next week, and we will have the papers ready for you to sign. In the meantime I recommend you to change your quarters or leave London altogether."
I left Mr. Benedict with a new respect for the legal profession. After having been so thoroughly fooled and exploited, it was pleasant to think that I should have the laugh on my side in the long run. I was not at all inclined to keep out of the way, however. To miss the dénouement was not to be thought of; but I decided to retire to less expensive rooms, settle my outstanding debts, dispense with Hicks ("I suppose he makes commissions out of me, like the rest of them," I said to myself, savagely), and await the crisis.
The rest of the summer and the early part of the autumn I spent very agreeably in the country, returning to London a few days before my twenty-first birthday, which fell on November 15th. I took care to write Jackson a polite letter, informing him of my change of address, and received an equally polite acknowledgment, to my great delight. In due course came another letter, reminding me that it would give Mr. Jackson pleasure to receive the sum of eight thousand pounds at my earliest convenience. This letter I handed over to Mr. Benedict, who, in the best legal language, replied that he and his father, as my sole trustees, repudiated the transactions I had entered into, but would nevertheless repay the five thousand pounds, with six months' interest at four per cent.
I would have given a good deal to see the faces of Jackson and Co. when they received this missive. By what I could gather from my lawyers, the money-lender was very indignant at first, but when he found he could make no impression on the Benedicts he concluded to treat the matter as one of those little disappointments to which business men are liable; and, finally, he accepted the offer and the money. I had expected him to show more fight, and was rather disappointed at first; but I had not long to wait for excitement.
Late one afternoon I was on my way home to dress for dinner, after spending an hour or two at one of my usual resorts near the Strand. Having plenty of time, I turned into the Green Park and was sauntering along, enjoying a cigarette, when a hand was laid on my shoulder from behind, and a well-known voice exclaimed: "A word with you, my friend!"
It was Captain Wyngate!
I wheeled round and looked at him defiantly.
"I have nothing to say to you," I said, curtly.
"But I have a great deal to say to you," he retorted. "I have been on the look-out for you for some time, and now that there is no one to listen to us I would like to give you a small piece of advice."
"I don't want it," I interrupted.
"Perhaps not," he continued; "but if you don't take it you will be very sorry one of these days. Are you going to pay Jackson his three thousand pounds or are you not?"
His manner was brusque and overbearing to the last degree, and my temper began to rise.
"What has that to do with you?" I demanded.
"That's my affair," he snapped. "Make your trustees pay up, or——"
"Or what?"
"You'll see, and pretty soon, too."
"Look here, Captain Wyngate," I exclaimed, hotly, "I am not going to be bullied. You and your friends have had all you will get out of me. I know you to be one of the biggest scoundrels in London, and if you interfere with me, look out for yourself, that's all."
"Indeed!" he sneered. "So you think you can trick me and get off scot-free, do you? Listen! If that money isn't paid in a week I'll have your life!"
"Don't talk rubbish," I interposed.
"Ah, you think yourself safe," he went on, in the same ironical tone. "You imagine the police will protect you, I suppose. You young idiot, your life won't be worth sixpence!"
"Touch me if you dare!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, you're quite safe now," he sneered. "I give you a week to think it over, and then, if the money isn't paid, look out. You have had fair warning."
"More than the man in Switzerland had," I suggested sarcastically, as Wyngate turned away.
He gave me one look of concentrated hate, and seemed about to speak, but checked himself, turned his back on me, and disappeared in the darkness.
"Bluff!" I said to myself. "What can he do?" And I continued my walk home.
I was quite as strong as Wyngate, and felt well able to hold my own if he attacked me. As to the idea of being murdered in the heart of London, it was preposterous. This kind of thing might happen among secret society men and weird foreigners handy with their knives; but Englishmen had nothing to fear, I assured myself, and several fellows to whom I mentioned the matter casually at the club agreed with me. I did not even think it worth while to tell Mr. Benedict of the meeting.
One night I was walking home through a fog which, though not possessing the regulation pea-soup consistency, was thick enough to make it impossible to see anyone more than twenty yards away. As I entered St. James's Square I heard footsteps behind me, but having no thought of danger I paid no attention to them. Suddenly I felt a violent blow on the shoulder, and turning sharply round I saw a man with an uplifted bludgeon, in the act of striking at me again. I was absolutely defenceless, having not even a cane with me. The thought, "Wyngate's at the bottom of this!" flashed across my mind. I had just time to jump aside and avoid the stick as it fell. Then I dashed off at full speed into the fog. I was at too great a disadvantage to be heroic.
My assailant made no attempt to follow me. His coup having failed, he no doubt thought it prudent to clear out at once. I could not distinguish his features, but one thing was certain: he was not Wyngate. He was a rather short, thick-set man, wearing a soft hat pulled well down over his eyes. The only other detail that struck me during the instant we were at close quarters was the strong smell of drink which he gave out. I put him down as a hired ruffian, and it became evident to me that if Wyngate were capable of using such instruments of revenge I should have to take him a good deal more seriously than hitherto.
As long as there was the bruise on my shoulder to remind me of the adventure in St. James's Square I was almost prudent. I took to carrying a sword-cane, and went home at night in cabs instead of walking. I also gave myself a certain amount of entertainment by manœuvering to find out whether I was being followed. To this end I used to stop suddenly and pretend to look into shop-windows, in the hope of catching the spy unawares; but, if he existed at all, he was cleverer than I at the game. Nothing happened except a collision now and then, caused by some innocent promenader running into me from behind when I pulled up. Then I had to apologize and try not to look foolish. Finally my natural insouciance got the upper hand, and I ceased to worry about my enemy.
"I SAW A MAN WITH AN UPLIFTED BLUDGEON, IN THE ACT OF STRIKING AT ME AGAIN."
Christmas was drawing near, and I was preparing to leave town to spend the festive season with friends in the country, when I received a wire one morning from Archie Hunter, my Cambridge chum, telling me he was coming to town in the afternoon, and asking me to meet him at six o'clock in the bar of a small West-end hotel where we had foregathered on previous occasions. I was on hand at the appointed time, but there was no sign of Hunter.
"Train late, I suppose," I thought, and sat down to wait. There was no one I knew in the bar, but, being sociably inclined, I was soon in conversation with two or three other men whose only object seemed to be to while away the time. With them were a couple of fashionably-dressed girls, and by and by I noticed that one of them looked at me frequently, not as if she wanted to begin a flirtation, but rather with curiosity. I had never seen her before, but, beyond wondering vaguely whether she had remarked something peculiar about my appearance, I paid no attention, engaged as I was in discussing cricket with one of the men.
Presently two of them began to talk billiards, at which, it seemed, they were old rivals, and, as neither would admit inferiority, they decided to go upstairs to the billiard-room and play a couple of hundred up.
"We may as well go and watch them," remarked the man with whom I was talking.
"All right," I said, unsuspectingly, and, emptying my glass, I prepared to go upstairs.
The billiard-players led the way, the others following. The girl who had been looking at me was the last except myself to leave the bar. The door-handle apparently slipped from her fingers and the door, which had an ordinary spring, closed in her face with a slam, thus momentarily cutting us off from the others. To my intense surprise she turned and whispered, hurriedly:—
"Don't go upstairs; they will throw you down!"
In another instant she had pulled the door open and was ascending the stairs.
"Wyngate again!" was the thought that flashed through my mind.
At first I was inclined to disregard the warning, but a moment's reflection showed me that there was no disgrace in declining an unequal combat, and that, even if I were not knocked downstairs by some cleverly-contrived "accident," I could be sure of being dealt some underhand blow by agents of so unscrupulous a person as my late guest.
I went up three or four steps, and then—exclaiming, "Forgotten my stick; I'll be back in a moment!"—I returned to the bar, went out quickly by another door, jumped into a hansom, and made good my retreat.
"Two not out, captain!" I remarked, with satisfaction; but, as I was soon to discover, the game was not by any means finished.
I wrote to Hunter at once, asking him if he had wired me to meet him. He replied that he had not done so, and that someone must have been using his name.
The more I thought over the situation the less I liked it. It was evident that I had become the object of a sort of vendetta on the part of a very clever scoundrel, who would stick at nothing to obtain his revenge and was always ready to strike at me when I least expected it. To apply to the police would have been useless, as I had not a scrap of evidence against him. I had slipped through his fingers twice, but I could hardly count upon another such timely warning as I received in the hotel bar. The girl must have known that there was a plot against me, but why did she interfere? Was it caprice or a good instinct?
In the hope of finding out something I dropped in two or three times at the hotel at different hours, but the few guarded inquiries I made led to nothing. The girl and her companions were merely chance customers, quite unknown to the hotel people, who would have been almost as disagreeably surprised as myself if Wyngate's little scheme had succeeded.
Feeling that the air of London was becoming decidedly unwholesome, I went off to my friends at Folkestone, rather unwisely leaving my address, so that letters could be forwarded. Thanks to cheerful surroundings—the society of nice people has a really remarkable effect in changing the current of one's ideas—my enemy's sinister figure began to recede into the background. I was one of a house-party of about a dozen, and they were all intensely interested in my story, though nobody could suggest anything better than going abroad for a year or two.
On the Tuesday after my arrival somebody mentioned that there was to be a ball on the following Monday at one of the hotels on the cliff, and we decided to make up a party and go. Tickets were taken, and, of course, we made no secret of our intention, which was known to the servants, tradespeople, and, in fact, anyone who might have taken an interest in our doings.
On the Monday afternoon, while we were talking and tea-drinking in the drawing-room, Charlie Barbour, one of the party, came in, walked straight up to me, and remarked:—
"Well, old chap, there's some more fun in store for you."
"What on earth do you mean?" I demanded, vaguely uneasy.
"Only that your friend Wyngate is beginning again," he replied.
Then he told us that, happening to stroll into a barber's to get himself smartened up for the evening, he had overheard two men talking confidentially in German while waiting their turn to be shaved. As it happened, Charlie was educated in Germany, and understood the language perfectly well. At first, having no desire to overhear what was not intended for him, he paid no attention, but presently he caught a remark about the ball to which we were going the same evening. Listening more attentively, he made out that somebody at the ball was to be given a letter asking him to come outside for a few minutes on to the terrace at the top of the cliff. This did not at first strike him as suspicious, but when the two men, who looked like innocent commercial travellers, had left the shop it suddenly occurred to Charlie that their conversation might relate to me. It was so very much like Wyngate's style, he thought, to get me on top of a cliff at night, when there would probably be no one to see what happened to me. With this idea in his head, Charlie escaped from the barber's as promptly as possible and spent an hour or two prowling about in search of the two men, but in vain; after which he made for home to tell me his story.
The girls became very much excited, and one of them said I was like the hero of a sensational novel. We held a sort of council of war, and decided that, if any letter of the kind were sent in to me while the dance was going on, I should go outside with a revolver in my pocket, and that Barbour and another man, Carruthers, also armed, should follow close behind.
We were still discussing the affair when a telegram was brought to me. I opened it and read:—
"If you value your life, leave Folkestone immediately."
There was no signature, but I had not the least doubt that the telegram, which came from London, was sent by the unknown girl who had already befriended me once.
Somebody remarked that the situation was becoming quite dramatic. I agreed; but when I asked whether anyone would like to take my part as the hero there were no offers.
Calling in the police was suggested; but Barbour and Carruthers—both strong, active fellows—objected strongly to giving anyone else a chance of capturing a brace of modern desperadoes, and we concluded to keep the matter perfectly quiet, so as to give the enemy no hint of the counter-mine we were preparing.
I never went to such an exciting dance in my life as I did that evening; and all the others in our party were equally on the qui vive. I rather enjoyed it after a time, as the ladies were so very anxious to keep me dancing with them; while Barbour and Carruthers several times got into trouble with their partners through trying to keep their eye on me instead of attending to business.
It was nearly twelve o'clock before the expected summons came. I had just taken my partner back to her seat when one of the hotel servants came and told me a gentleman was anxious to see me outside on important business.
Signalling to Barbour and Carruthers, I left the ball-room and strolled as unconcernedly as possible out on to the terrace. There was no moon, and, but for a few twinkling gas-lamps and the light from the hotel windows, all was dark outside. I could just distinguish two men standing on the terrace about twenty yards away. Seeing me walk towards them they moved to meet me, but at this moment Barbour and Carruthers made their appearance behind me. This was quite enough for my enemies. Without a word they turned and ran off at full speed, taking different directions as they reached the main road. We gave chase, but they ran as fast as we did, and we soon lost them in the darkness.
It was annoying to have let the fellows slip through our fingers, but there was some satisfaction in knowing that I was in no danger when with friends, and that Wyngate's emissaries were not conspicuous for courage. Like himself, no doubt, they were ready to strike only when there was no danger of being caught.
As soon as possible after returning to London I gave up my rooms, stored such of my belongings as were not portable, and went to live at my club, on the principle that there is safety in numbers. In this I was again mistaken, as I was soon to learn.
A fortnight later I went to a fancy dress ball at the Covent Garden Opera house. I had just been chatting with an acquaintance, and was standing amid a small group of people who were strangers to me, at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the people coming up, when I felt myself suddenly seized from behind and hurled down the steps. I was completely taken by surprise and could do nothing to save myself. My unknown assailant no doubt reckoned that my head would come into contact with the wall at the bottom of the flight of steps, and that I should either be killed or badly hurt. By great good luck, however, a portly commissionaire, taking tickets, was standing just in the right spot, and I dashed into him with great violence, bowling him over like a ninepin, but luckily without hurting him. I was stunned by the shock, and by the time I recovered it was of course useless to look for the man who had thrown me down the staircase. He must have shadowed me for some time and chosen his moment well, for no one saw the act, unless it be that he had accomplices who screened him from observation.
After this fourth experience I confessed that my nerve was considerably shaken. To go on living by myself in London was only to court disaster and live in daily expectation of a fifth attempt on my life. I need not trouble the reader with the details of my consultations with the Benedicts and my father, who became reconciled to me on hearing my story. The end of it was that, after a few months' strict seclusion with a coach in the country, I entered the Militia.
At L——, where I am stationed, I ought to be fairly safe among my brother officers and the soldiers. And yet, who knows? Perhaps Wyngate (who goes about openly in London, dines at the best restaurants, and stares defiantly at friends of mine who know the story) is tired of pursuing me, or thinks the game is not worth the candle. I hope so, at any rate, for I sometimes feel that if he keeps to his purpose he will, sooner or later, achieve it.
[DOLPHIN=HUNTING.]
By Victor Forbin.
A vivacious account by a French journalist of his introduction to a curious sport of which practically nothing is known in this country.
For a long time a hotbed of patriotic Anglophobia, St. Malo, the ancient city whose proud boast it is that it has never been conquered, has been of recent years quietly annexed, so to speak, by its former foe, and has become a popular resort with English tourists, so that the poorest of its shops is proud to display on its front windows the welcoming motto, "English spoken."
The Malouins themselves are the boldest sailors of France; it is a saying among them that "they have the love of the sea in their blood." The sons and grandsons of daring privateers, they pass nearly their whole lives at sea, many of them going every year to the Grand Banks of Newfoundland for the cod-fishing season.
Even the well-to-do classes, gentry or bourgeoisie, are fond of maritime pastimes such as fishing and yachting. Their favourite diversion, however, is dolphin-hunting, a sport which the authorities encourage by every means in their power, since dolphins and porpoises are causing terrible havoc among the schools of herring and sardines on the French coast, thus destroying the livelihood of the fisher-folk.
"DELPHINUS DELPHIS," THE LARGEST SPECIES OF DOLPHIN FOUND OFF THE BRITTANY COAST—IT WEIGHS FROM THREE TO FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS, AND MAY REACH NINE FEET IN LENGTH.
From a Photograph.
During a recent stay in the suburbs of St. Malo, my host insisted upon introducing me to the enchantment of a sport of whose very existence I had hitherto been ignorant.
"You cannot possibly return to Paris until you have killed your porpoise, can you?" he asked, insinuatingly.
"I am here for rest, not for butchery," I replied, indolently.
"But just think of the story you will have to tell," he continued. "A dolphin hunt! It is old to us Malouins, but what a novelty for you, a newspaper man, a Parisian!"
"A novelty, to be sure," I returned. "But what about sunstroke? I tell you, my dear Desmond, in this terrific heat the shade of your apple trees is good enough for me. Bother your dolphin-hunting!"
That is what I told him, and at the moment I meant it; yet I must confess that I allowed myself to be conquered in the end by a monetary argument.
"But you're losing money," urged my host. "You forget that a certain official is ready to pay you a five-franc piece for each dolphin's head you may bring him!"
Five francs! I rose to the bait. What glory for a writer to be able to boast that he has earned money with his gun! How I could crow over my fellow-scribes! So, tempted by glorious visions of many five-franc pieces, I weakly surrendered.
It is quite likely that dreams of sport caused me to sleep more soundly than I ought to have done, for when my friend's shouts awoke me at last I unjustly scolded my alarm-clock, which had done its duty.
Fortunately, everything was ready, down to the café-au-lait and petit pain that the maid was bringing in. A few minutes later I hastily jumped aboard the yacht Christiane, where Desmond and his mousse (cabin-boy), Jean-Marie Le Floch, were waiting for me, meanwhile endeavouring to ascertain from some old salts in which direction and at about what distance out we should be likely to meet with a school of marsouins.
"Marsouins?" ejaculated one old fisherman, between puffs at his pipe. "The confounded vermin are to be met with everywhere and nowhere."
Never expect, by the way, to receive precise information from a Breton fisherman. But never mind; we shall reach our objective some time or other with the help of the breeze and the good-will of the dolphins!
Presently the yacht was ploughing her way gracefully through the waves, and for the time being we had nothing else to do but search the horizon and talk about our intended victims. Meanwhile I learnt from my friend many interesting details about dolphins and their ways.
It appears that several species of dolphins are to be met with near the shores of Brittany. The largest is known to science as Delphinus delphis, and differs from other varieties by its long jaws—very like the beak of a big bird, and armed with about sixty teeth as hard and sharp as steel. Its length may reach nine feet, and it weighs from three to four hundred pounds. A swift swimmer, it preys on the schools of herrings, following them right up to Scottish waters. In spite of its greed, it is noted for its mild temper, and frequently amuses itself by playing round ships in the open sea.
Then there is the Delphinus tursio, or souffleur. This is smaller, and its beak is shorter, though armed with strong, powerful teeth that enable it to attack a big fish, pinning it down to the rocks with such force that its nose is often deeply marked with numerous cuts. This dolphin hates the very sight of a ship and never comes close to one.
My friend was beginning to tell me something about the porpoise, or marsouin, the smallest species of the genus, when Jean-Marie Le Floch put an end to the scientific discourse by a sudden shout. He was positive, he declared, that he had just seen a dolphin jumping out of the water about five hundred yards ahead of us!
"Are you quite certain about it, mon garçon?" said Desmond, eagerly grasping his gun. "Did you really?"
"Tenez, m'sieur!" replied the lad. "There! there! Did you see it?"
A YACHT CHASING A SCHOOL OF DOLPHINS.
From a Photograph.
Sure enough, a black object had just shot out of the water, disappearing again so quickly that I almost thought I had made a mistake. Not so my friend. He had seen enough to convince him that the dolphin was coming towards us at full speed, and accordingly got his gun ready, meanwhile giving me some rapid hints about the best way of shooting.
"Now, don't aim at the head," he told me. "Never at the head, whatever you do."
"What a queer idea!" said I. "Wouldn't a bullet through its head stop it dead?"
HAULING A DOLPHIN INTO THE YACHT'S DINGHY.
From a Photograph.
"Most certainly; but you would waste your powder and shot. The dolphin would sink at once, taking away to the depths of the ocean both your bullet and your five-franc premium. No; you must aim squarely at the belly. Otherwise——Dear me!"
At that very moment the dolphin jumped clear out of the waves quite close to us. Swift as lightning Desmond aimed at the flying monster, shining in the sunlight about a hundred yards ahead, and pulled trigger.
"Well done! A splendid shot!" I shouted enthusiastically, as the bullet took effect and the dolphin disappeared.
"It was too splendid!" grumbled Desmond.
Without another word he jumped into the dinghy, towing astern, where the boy was already waiting for him, a harpoon in his hand.
"Keep an eye upon it as soon as it comes up," he shouted to me, as he scrambled for an oar.
"There it is! I see it, bleeding!" I cried. The wounded dolphin had reappeared a short distance away, the foam of the waves around being tinted red with its life-blood. Pointing out the right direction to the pair in the boat, I shouted a few remarks after them.
"I should say it is sinking. Make haste! Dépêchez-vous! It is turning over on its back; I see only its white underside. Quick! Quick!"
"Malheur de ma vie!" I heard Desmond groaning in despair.
Under his very nose, just at the moment when Jean-Marie Le Floch was about to throw his harpoon, the white spot suddenly disappeared; the sea had swallowed the dead dolphin in an instant.
At that moment of bitter disappointment I foresaw the sad dénouement of the venture: our shameful return empty-handed to the little harbour amid the sneers of the old fishermen, who would inquire eagerly:—
"What about the porpoises, gentlemen? How many dolphins are you bringing in?"
Assuredly there must be a special Providence which looks after hunters—especially amateur ones. Just as I was about to sit down, in a fit of despair, a flash caught my eye. Less than sixty yards from the bow, where I was standing, and at about half that distance from the dinghy, a school of dolphins had suddenly appeared!
With a quick motion I seized my gun, and as I raised it to my shoulder my friend's admonitions were clean forgotten.
Bang! bang! bang! A positive frenzy of slaughter appeared to have taken hold of me, and I kept on shooting just as long as the magazine of my rifle held out. Meanwhile the two spectators in the dinghy were frantic with joy. Never in my life have I heard so thick a rain of flattering words as they showered upon me then.
THE CABIN-BOY WITH THE LAST DOLPHIN SHOT BY THE AUTHOR.
From a Photograph.
It is quite likely that several of my victims sank while breathing their last, for I really cannot believe that a single one of my dozen shots missed its mark. Be this as it may, however, I had undoubtedly broken the record in dolphin-hunting, for, as a matter of fact, Desmond and the boy succeeded in harpooning and bringing back half-a-dozen of the creatures.
I am satisfied that Desmond is a sincere and trustworthy friend. Nevertheless, I am not prepared to swear that he was not just a little bit envious when we re-entered the harbour a few minutes after noon. Just think of it! He, the veteran hunter, was coming back as he had gone, empty-handed, whereas his pupil—the man to whom he had had to explain what dolphin-hunting was—would be able to bring to-morrow to the commissaire des pêches, the responsible official, six dolphin tails, receiving from that worthy no less a sum than thirty francs! Truly it must have been a sad blow for him.
Later in the afternoon the tide brought in a dying dolphin, too weak to resist the flood and fight its way towards the open sea. Success makes one generous, and I begged of Jean-Marie Le Floch to help himself freely and take possession of the tail of my seventh dolphin, asking him, by way of exchange, to pose as heroically as possible in front of the camera by the side of my last victim.
Such was the début of a Parisian journalist as a dolphin-hunter. Do not ask me if I went out again on a similar quest. My initial exploit has established my reputation as a dead shot, and I do not care to risk the loss of my laurels.
[A Tragedy of the Nile.]
By Major D. G. Prendergast.
A grim story of love, hate, and relentless vengeance. "The events occurred in the early 'eighties," writes Major Prendergast. "I learnt all the facts and met Mahkmoud, the central character, in the course of my official duties."
The first act of this tragedy of real life took place at a small village a few miles south of Assiout, the chief town of what in the 'eighties was known as Upper Egypt.
It was the end of September, after the Nile had overflowed its banks, and the crops were full and green. The time was evening, and Mahkmoud, one of the principal actors in my story, was sitting on the sun-dried mud wall of one of the shadoofs (irrigation wells) which watered his land. He was at this time a man of some consequence in his village, and for a fellah was counted rich, being the owner of a fair-sized piece of fertile land. He was a man over six feet in height, with the broad sinewy back and shoulders and general physical strength which is the heritage of the fellaheen race of the Nile Valley. His head was large and bullet-shaped, his neck thick-set, his eyes keen and deep-set, while his mouth and chin plainly indicated that he was a man possessed of great determination and of unusually strong passions.
To-night he sat and gazed moodily into the dark, transparent waters of the rushing stream, black thoughts of vengeance crowding into his brain, for he was in sore trouble. Of late the village gossips had been busy connecting the name of his young wife, Rukhia, with one Abdul, the ne'er-do-weel of the place.
In a small community no secret can remain hidden for long, and although, naturally, Mahkmoud would be the last to hear of the scandal, still it was only a matter of time before it reached his ears. Only to-day his friends had hinted to him that his wife was, perhaps, not quite all he thought her to be, and the name of Abdul was at the same time carelessly introduced into the conversation. Now, Abdul had only been back in his native village for six months; for the past seven years, previous to his return, he had been serving his Highness the Khedive as a conscript soldier in the Egyptian army.
The fellaheen of Egypt make docile, tractable soldiers, amenable to discipline, keen on all routine work and peace soldiering, but lacking that élan and dash which are so valuable an asset in time of war. Even in the Egyptian army, however, there are bad characters, and for these there is a special corps—a sort of "Lost Legion." This corps is known as the Discipline Company, and the life led by its members is little better than that of the convict. Their uniform is of a much brighter yellow than khaki, and each man wears an iron ring welded round his right ankle. Abdul had finished the last three years of his service in this ill-starred company. News spreads in a mysterious way from village to village along the hundreds of miles from Cairo to the frontier, and tidings of Abdul's doings during his soldiering career had somehow reached his native village. It was not of a sort which was likely to ensure a warm welcome for him on his return.
During the three years Abdul served out his time in the Discipline Company he became intimately acquainted with many men who were among the scum of the earth. When at length the period of service in this Legion of the Lost was concluded, and its members returned to the world and civil life, as often as not they led lives of crime and infamy which generally brought them within reach of the law, so that most of them ended their days in the convict prisons of Tourah or Tokar, and the very worst of all in the hulk moored in Trinkitat Bay.
Years ago, before the lot of the conscript soldier had fallen on Abdul, Mahkmoud and he had had bitter quarrels over the question of the irrigation of their respective lands, which were adjacent to each other.
The water of the Nile is the very life-blood of the fellaheen, and he who secretly or by stealth diverts the water from his neighbour's land on to his own is guilty of a heinous crime. In days gone by Mahkmoud had more than sufficient reason to suspect that the water from his shadoofs and sakiehs had helped to irrigate his neighbour's land. Many angry words had been exchanged in consequence, and a lifelong feud had been established between the two men.
On the evening of the day this story opens, Mahkmoud sat and brooded over all he had lately heard. Many little incidents in connection with his young wife, to which at the time he had hardly given a passing thought, now seemed to rise up clearly before him. He realized that within the past six months his wife had changed from a pattern of domestic drudgery—the usual lot of a fellah's wife—to a listless, slovenly woman who found work too much for her. Often on his return from a long day's labour in the fields he would find the evening meal not yet ready, the fuel not gathered, and the ziehs (earthen water-jars) only half filled. Even his two little boys, who had hitherto been the joy of their mother's life, did not seem any longer to interest her. Mahkmoud also remembered, now that his jealousy was aroused, how frequently on his return he found his wife out—absent from home at hours when it is unusual for women to be away from their domestic duties. There had even been an occasion when Mahkmoud had come home in the grey dawn from watching his crops by night and scaring away wild animals, when he found her outside the wall which surrounded his house. At the time he thought it strange, but was satisfied with some paltry excuse. Now, all these incidents loomed large before his gaze, and he understood their meaning. To-night he vowed he would take a terrible revenge—revenge upon his hated enemy and on his faithless wife. He would wait and watch; he would bide his time. When it came, the punishment he would mete out to the guilty pair would live in the memory of his village for all time.
About a month before the events just described a stranger arrived in the village, and the first man he met happened to be Mahkmoud. To him the new-comer told a plausible story of how he had worked for the eccentric sawerheen (white travellers) who were always digging amongst the ruins of the ancient temples. Having scraped together enough money to enable him to return to his native village near Wady Halfa, he was on his journey back, when he had fallen amongst thieves and lost all he possessed. He asked Mahkmoud to help him by giving him employment during the season of the crops. For a few pence a day he worked for Mahkmoud—irrigating the fields, watching his flocks of goats by day, and taking his turn in frightening off wild animals from the growing crops at night. He slept in a mud hovel with the goats, inside the sun-baked mud wall which surrounded Mahkmoud's dwelling-houses. He was a taciturn man, with an evil-looking countenance. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. If mentioned in conversation, men referred to him as "ibn el kelp" (son of a dog), and mothers warned their children to flee from his path should they meet him, and on no account whatever to look at him, for he was a man possessed of "the evil eye" and would cast a spell over them.
There was one man in the village, however, who knew this stranger, and the stranger knew him. Abdul and the goatherd had toiled together for many a weary day, with the iron ring on their ankles, in the ranks of the Discipline Company. By tacit consent they never openly recognised one another, and, as far as anyone knew, had never been seen to speak to each other. Both inwardly feared one another and wondered when the other would give him away. As a cat watches a mouse so did this stranger watch Abdul, and it was not very long before he had made himself acquainted with information for which it seemed that either Abdul, his enemy, or Mahkmoud, his master, might think it worth while to pay him handsomely.
One night, when his employer was away keeping watch over his crops, he lay awake in his shed and heard footsteps steal silently past where he lay. Then he heard the door of the walled enclosure quietly opened and shut. Scenting that something was amiss, the goatherd stranger rose and silently went in pursuit. Seeing nothing, he hid himself amongst the mimosa bushes, which grew thick on both sides of the narrow path leading from the door to the river-bank. Presently, from his place of concealment, he beheld two forms walking up from the direction of the river towards the house, and as they slowly passed the spot where he lay hidden the watcher, by the light of the stars, recognised beyond a doubt who the couple were. "Allah is great, and Mohammed is His Prophet," murmured the stranger. "My enemy has now been delivered into my hands. I will demand from the dog the sum of twenty Egyptian pounds, and if he will not give them to me—then my employer knows all."
As the door softly closed, out of the deep shadow of the wall one figure retraced its steps along the path towards the river. It was Abdul. When he arrived at the spot where the path was narrowed by the mimosa bushes, the watcher rose up and, stepping to the path, confronted his man. Speaking in a low, hissing voice, he said, "Abdul, you know me. I am a man of few words, and my words to you this night are few."
Abdul, taken unawares, stood still, trembling, and then, recognising who it was that spoke, answered, "What do you want with me at this hour of night, you offspring of a snake?"
"I will tell you," the stranger replied. "Since my sojourn here I have been employed in watching my master's property; both by day and by night I have driven the noxious animals away. But there is one foul bird of night that I have not driven away, and that, O Abdul, is yourself. Now I will make this compact with you, who are in my power. If you will give me the sum of twenty Egyptian pounds at noon to-morrow I will go forth from here and return no more; and my lips shall be for ever sealed. This I will swear by the beard of the Prophet."
"HE MOVED FORWARD AS THOUGH TO PASS HIS MAN, WHEN THE KNIFE FLASHED DOWNWARDS."
The stranger folded his arms and stood silent, awaiting the reply.
After a pause, which to both men seemed an age, Abdul replied, "And if I refuse this price of blackmail, how then? What can you do—a stranger and a dog? Who, think you, will believe your perjured evidence?"
The goatherd did not immediately reply, and for a space the two men stood confronting each other. Abdul was wearing a gallibeah—a long cloak reaching from the neck to the feet, made of thick cotton stuff, with very large loose sleeves. The stranger was dressed, as he slept, in a cotton shirt and drawers. So it happened that Abdul was able, unseen by his foe, to draw his knife from its sheath. (All the natives of this country carry a big knife in a sheath strapped to the left arm, just above the elbow.)
After a few moments had elapsed the stranger laughed a short, derisive laugh, and, putting out his arm, as if to brush Abdul aside, said, "You fool! At the rising of to-morrow's sun Mahkmoud shall know all." With that he moved forward as though to pass his man, when the knife flashed downwards, and with a choking, gurgling sound, followed by a deep sigh, he sank to the earth, never to rise again!
Abdul's knife had been driven home to the hilt through his heart, and the luckless goatherd's life-blood gushed out in a dark red stream, spreading over the pathway. Abdul, having made sure that there was no chance of life remaining, dragged the corpse into the bushes, and hurriedly returned to the door in the shadow of the wall. Here he imitated the cry of the night-bird—the preconcerted signal between himself and Rukhia. After a pause the door was quietly opened once more, and in the dark shadow Abdul hurriedly told her all that had happened. Before they parted it was arranged as to what should be said and done on the morrow. The blood-stained knife was hidden by the wife in Mahkmoud's sleeping apartment. Her part of the crime was that she should gain possession of her husband's knife after he had sunk into the deep sleep which usually came upon him after a night of watching, and throw it into the river.
The sun had scarcely risen above the line of the sand-hills on the eastern bank before the whole village was astir and excitedly discussing what was undoubtedly a murder. The Yushbashi (captain) of police at Assiout was in due course informed. He and his men arrived later, and after much talking and taking down of numerous notes which had little bearing on the subject he ordered the body of the murdered man to be carried to Assiout, almost half the population of the village accompanying him as well.
ASSIOUT, WHERE MAHKMOUD WAS TRIED FOR HIS LIFE.
From a Photograph.
"The Mudir (the Egyptian governor) shall decide who is the culprit," said the officer.
The police, of course, had to find a culprit, and also procure sufficient evidence to convict him, and this they proceeded to do. As the result of their investigations the unhappy Mahkmoud was placed on his trial for the murder. He pleaded "Not guilty," but otherwise had no defence, admitting that he was absent from home from nine o'clock on the night of the murder until about half-past four the next morning. The police produced evidence that the murdered man and Mahkmoud were not on good terms, that Mahkmoud's shoes were covered with blood, and that they exactly fitted the footsteps on the path leading from the scene of the murder to the house. It was also hinted that there was an intrigue between the stranger and the wife. Finally, the prosecution produced the blood-stained knife and sheath, which had been discovered in a rat-hole in Mahkmoud's sleeping apartment. In addition, two important witnesses were called. One was Abdul, who swore that on the fatal night he was watching his crops some five hundred yards from the spot where the body was found, and heard voices in angry altercation some two hours before sunrise.
Rukhia, Mahkmoud's wife, then appeared, to everyone's astonishment, and told a graphic story of how she was awakened some little time before sunrise, and heard the voices of the stranger and her husband in a heated argument. Mahkmoud then returned, much excited and swearing fiercely. In the morning she noticed the blood-stained shoes and missed the knife from the shelf where it was usually put. Later it was found by the police who searched the house.
Mahkmoud, in spite of his protestations of innocence, was found guilty—mainly on the circumstantial evidence of his wife and Abdul. He was sentenced to death, which sentence was subsequently commuted to penal servitude for the term of his natural life.
It would take too long to follow this miserable but innocent convict through the weary years he spent working out his awful doom. To be able to realize what an Egyptian convict's life is like one must at least have seen the prisons and the hulk. The first five years were spent in the prison at Tourah. The very fact that this man—so strong willed and passionate by nature—was innocent drove him to the verge of frenzy, and having become known as a dangerous and violent convict he found himself confined first in a solitary cell, and then drafted to the prison at Tokar. Here he was compelled to associate with the very worst criminals in Egypt; and, breaking the rules again, he was sentenced to undergo the remainder of his imprisonment on board the hulk in Trinkitat Bay.
It is enough to say that this bay is on the Red Sea littoral, a terrible place for any living man, white or black, to have to spend his life. It was in this hulk that the writer saw Mahkmoud. Escape from this floating jail is practically impossible. It is moored some seven hundred yards from the shore, and the water teems with sharks, who do not allow much to escape their observant eyes as they continually cruise round the hulk.
Many times poor wretches doomed to this living grave have escaped from Tokar Prison. It is easy, for the prison is only built of mud and wattle, and the warders are very careless. But up to the time I shall describe later no prisoner had been known to get far away.
Nomad tribes of Somalis and Arabs (the "Fuzzy-Wuzzies" of the days of our fierce fights at El Teb and Tamai, Tokar and McNeill's Zareba) live and move all round this part of the bush, occupying the few wells there are, right up to the Erkoweit hills. The Government give the head-men of these tribes substantial rewards for each fugitive they capture and bring in, so that the convict's chance of escape is infinitesimal. They must go to these tribes for food and water, or die of hunger and thirst in the desert.
The Nile is the very life and soul of the Egyptian fellah, and the captives of the Kings of Assyria, who sat down by the waters of Babylon and wept, could not have longed more passionately for their Jewish homes than did these poor outcasts to see once more their native villages and taste "the sweet waters of the Nile."
"If I can but escape and reach those distant hills," they told themselves, "then I can easily walk over them. There may still be a few miles of desert sand to cross, but it will surely at length bring me once again to the great beloved river, our Father Nile." This remark has been made to the writer times without number when visiting the convict gangs at work in the course of his official duties. But one and all of the hapless wretches reckoned without the far-stretching, arid sands or the prowling nomads, ever on the watch for fugitives.
One hot, still, starlight night, towards the end of the seventh year of his penal servitude, whilst the sentry was snugly rolled up in his blanket, Mahkmoud slipped overboard from the hulk and swam shorewards. He had seen the sharks cruising slowly round the hulk for many a long day, but, as he said in after years when telling the story of his escape, "Better become food for sharks than endure a living death." As luck would have it, he reached the beach safely, and after wandering towards the distant hills all that day and night he was overcome with hunger and thirst and, resigning himself to his fate, lay down under the sparse shadow of a thorn-bush to die. But Providence decreed otherwise. He was found by a party of raiding Baggara horsemen, who carried him off to Adharama, the head-quarters of the celebrated Dervish Emir, Osman Digna.
For the next two years Mahkmoud was a household slave in Osman Digna's house. While he was there the Khalifa sent for his Governor of the Eastern Sudan, and Mahkmoud accompanied his master. So once more, after nine long years, he again set eyes on the River Nile.
Even now it was almost impossible to escape, for the wild Arab tribes who at this time held sway over the country from Sarras to Fashoda loathed and despised the Egyptian fellah, and no one would help him. After three more years of bondage, however, spent between the Eastern Sudan and Omdurman, Mahkmoud escaped, joined a caravan which was bringing gum and ostrich feathers to the Egyptian frontier, and at last found himself on the Egyptian Nile at Assouan.
By this time "the murder," as it was generally referred to, had almost been forgotten by the villagers. If it was mentioned at all it was as an historical event, generally to fix the date of some other event which had occurred before or since.
The people, too, had almost forgotten Mahkmoud's existence; he was either dead or as good as dead. Abdul, in due course, had taken Rukhia to his harem as a wife, and she was the mother of his three children. After Mahkmoud's transportation his brother, as is usually the case when a widow re-marries, had taken over the care of his nephews, together with his brother's land and property.
It was again September, and the hour before sunset, when the women of the village had gone to draw water for their households. Abdul was sitting in his house, and his three children were asleep in the adjoining room. Suddenly a shadow was thrown across the room. Abdul turned quickly, half rising as he did so, to see who it was. But in an instant strong hands gripped his throat, and a voice, to him a terrible one, hoarsely hissed into his ear, "It is I, Mahkmoud, who after many years have not forgotten you!" Then a knife flashed for one moment before his terrified eyes, and in another second Abdul lay dead upon the floor, dead as his victim had lain in the path that fateful night twelve years before!
Later Rukhia returned. The room was almost dark and, before she realized that anything out of the ordinary had occurred, unseen hands seized her from the darkness and a voice, as it were of the dead, said, "It is your husband Mahkmoud who speaks to you, you false and perjured woman. Go now to where Abdul has gone!"
At dawn next day Mahkmoud walked calmly into the police-station at Assiout. Here he asked to see the Yushbashi of police, and when brought before him said, very quietly, "My name is Mahkmoud. Twelve years ago I was, through the false and perjured testimony of my wife and her lover, convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Now I am a murderer. Arrest me. I have spoken."
"IT IS YOUR HUSBAND MAHKMOUD WHO SPEAKS TO YOU, YOU FALSE AND PERJURED WOMAN."
For a second time Mahkmoud was tried for his life in Assiout, found guilty on his own confession, and sentenced to death. His Highness the Khedive once again commuted his sentence to penal servitude for life.
After five years, during which Mahkmoud's character was exemplary, he received a free pardon, and returned once more to his native village, where he died, an old and broken man. There is an Arab proverb, "If once you have tasted the sweet waters of the Nile, you will return to drink of them again."
[A White Woman in Cannibal-Land.]
By Annie Ker.
Some incidents of a lady's life in the wilds of New Guinea. Miss Ker went out to Papua—as the country is now called—attached to a mission, and describes the many strange, amusing, and exciting experiences she encountered during her seven years' sojourn among the natives, who, not so very long ago, were always fighting and much addicted to cannibalism—a practice which still prevails among the wild tribes of the unexplored interior.