The End.
Ways That Are Dark.
Some Records of Roguery.
By Ralph Stock, R. L. C. Morrison, and A. E. MacGrotty.
“For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,” says Bret Harte’s famous poem, “the heathen Chinee is peculiar.” The subjoined examples of clever rascality, however, show that the Celestial has by no means a monopoly of the gentle art of living at other people’s expense.
I.—MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO.
By Ralph Stock.
It was on the first anniversary of the great earthquake that I found myself in San Francisco. The city was a forest of scaffolding and steam-cranes; huge blocks of stone and concrete hung suspended above the streets on their way to clothe the towering “quake-proof” steel frameworks that rose from the débris of former buildings like gigantic skeletons. Hills of bricks, mortar, and plaster confronted the pedestrian at every turn, and the dust from these and the streets generally made the city a blinding, choking wilderness.
The demand for labour in rebuilding had drawn to San Francisco the very dregs of humanity throughout the Americas, and strikes, street riots, and robberies with violence were of daily occurrence. The authority of the police was a sinecure; fat, good-natured giants in white, uniforms and helmets, with truncheons swinging from their wrists, leant against hoardings at street corners and smoked cigarettes, or earnestly requested a striker who became more than usually vociferous to “Cut it out” or “Go way back and sit down.”
It appears that in “’Frisco” the cheapest way of living is by drinking, for by buying five cents’ worth of inferior beer one is entitled to eat at a “free lunch counter” adjacent to the bar and have a cut from the joint and cheese and biscuits ad lib. To a world-wanderer like myself, whose income was, to say the least, precarious, this was a great institution; and it was at one of these counters that I met a would-be guide, philosopher, and friend in the form of a gaunt youth who, after a brief exchange of civilities, professed the desire to show me a little of ‘Frisco under-life—at my expense. He promised me Chinese opium and gambling dens and orgies in subterranean dancing-halls, with attendant excitements undreamed of by my prosaic mind.
Such an appeal to the adventure-loving spirit that lies hidden in most of us was irresistible. I closed with the offer, and after investing in a cheap revolver, that was quite as likely to hurt the man behind it as the one in front, we set out for the less frequented parts of the city. Down by the docks the streets were dark and deserted, and my guide improved the occasion by relating the various “sand-baggings” and assaults that had distinguished the quarter during the past week.
The only lighted shop we passed was a small tobacco booth, where I stopped to buy cigarettes. This could hardly have taken me more than two minutes, yet when I stepped out into the street I found my unfortunate guide lying face downwards on the pavement, with a thin stream of red creeping from his forehead towards the gutter. For a brief moment I thought he had fainted; then I saw his clothes had been rifled, and, glancing up the street, discerned the dim outline of three dark figures trotting silently and apparently without haste into the gloom.
A wave of anger took possession of me; the cowardly assailants evidently thought they would get off scot-free after an easy and profitable night’s work. I longed to give them at least a scare for their money.
Leaving my companion, still insensible, to the care of the tobacconist, I dashed up the street in pursuit. My footfalls echoed along the deserted thoroughfare like rifle-shots, so I hastily discarded my boots and continued the chase in socks.
Rather to my surprise I soon came in sight of the three figures in front, who had now dropped into a leisurely walk. This confidence in their security for some reason angered me the more, and in the deep shadows of a wall I crept nearer and drew the revolver from my pocket.
I had never shot a man in my life, and for the first time I experienced the dread of doing this in cold blood. Then I remembered my companion’s gaunt figure prone on the pavement, and the fact that but for a packet of cigarettes I should have certainly shared the same fate. I fired—low down.
The men scattered like startled rabbits; two darted down by-streets on opposite sides of the road, while the third took an abrupt seat on the pavement and examined his leg, evidently more concerned about his wound than the chances of escape.
As I rushed down the turning to the left I sighted my second quarry scrambling over a mound of bricks; he turned and saw me at the same instant, and then began a chase and obstacle race combined under conditions that are probably unique. Over mounds of sand, lime, and broken brick; through mazes of scaffolding, barrels, planks, and wheelbarrows, pools of muddy water, and quagmires of soft mortar we went. My bootless feet were soon battered and bruised, but the fever of the chase was in my veins, and as long as my quarry was in sight I felt incapable of abandoning the pursuit.
The fugitive was now hardly thirty feet ahead, and I dashed after him round a corner of scaffolding, confident that I had run him to earth; and I did, but not in the way expected. He had crouched low just round the corner, and, unable to stop myself, I fell headlong over his body. It was an old trick, and I scrambled to my feet anathematizing myself for a fool, but my man had vanished. With slightly cooler blood and a bruised head I had just decided to leave matters where they stood, when I heard a gentle rasping, and looked up to find him clinging to a scaffold-pole above my head. I could see his white face looking down at me.
“What are you going to do about it?” he demanded, breathlessly.
“Come down and you’ll see,” said I, sternly.
When at last we stood facing each other, however, I found myself at a loss. He was a mere boy, with a wizened, old-young face and cunning eyes that took me in from hatless head to socked feet with a callous insolence that rather appealed to me. What was I going to do about it? The police of San Francisco were either asleep or smoking cigarettes in more salubrious quarters of the city; and it was next to impossible to give him in charge, so I took the law into my own hands.
“Hand over what you took,” said I, “and you shall go.”
“The others went through him,” he replied, sullenly; “I don’t know how much they got.”
“Shall we call it twenty-five dollars as a minimum?” I suggested.
His face expressed neither approval nor dissent, but he drew from a ragged pocket a large gold watch.
“Guess that’ll cover it,” he said, coolly, and on examination I found that it did, by fully another twenty-five dollars.
When, after considerable difficulty, I found my way back to the tobacconist, my companion had recovered consciousness and, with a bandaged head, sat up to hear my report.
“How much did you lose?” was my first question.
“Nothing,” he said; “I haven’t a cent in the world.”
“Then here’s something to be going on with,” said I, and handed him the watch.
After the foregoing, it is with some reluctance that I relate what happened two days later, but the experience is so typical of San Franciscan under-life that I can hardly allow it to pass unrecorded. My own part in the affair was entirely reprehensible, and I need say no more, for everyone knows that, while confession may be good for the soul, it is rarely compatible with personal dignity.
I wished to go to a certain theatre, and asked the way of the first pedestrian I met. He smilingly informed me that I was going in precisely the opposite direction, and that, as he happened to be passing the doors himself, he would show me the way. During the next five minutes I learnt that my guide was also a stranger to San Francisco, and that he had come from Canada. As I had lived there myself for four years this supplied a connecting link in our reminiscences, and we entered the first bar to improve the occasion. He certainly knew the Canadian prairie like a book, and his anecdotes of ranch and bush life were so interesting that the theatre was soon forgotten and we settled down for a chat.
“UNABLE TO STOP MYSELF, I FELL HEADLONG OVER HIS BODY.”
It appeared that he had tired of the rough life of the plains, and after a course of study had become a telegraph operator in Denver.
While there he had been approached by a gang of wire-tappers[2] with a view to his becoming a confederate, but he had refused. A few weeks later he heard of their capture, and went to see the trial and conviction of the entire gang.
[2] Those who intercept telegraph messages by establishing secret connections on branch wires, thus gaining news of races in advance of the general public.
Now, however, they were again at large, for he had recognised their leader that very day in the streets of San Francisco, and without a doubt he was engaged in his old nefarious business.
My companion’s idea was to make a round of the city pool-rooms, where they received news of the races by wire, and, if he encountered the “wire-tapper,” force him by threats of exposure to divulge what horses he was going to back. “There might be some brisk fun,” he said. “Would you care to come and see it?”
This appealed to me rather more than the theatre, and we accordingly started a careful tour of every pool-room in the city. They were dark, dusty places, swarming with a heterogeneous collection of humanity that ceaselessly shuffled and elbowed round boards bearing notices of the odds and winners, while a sleek gentleman in faultless attire stood on a rostrum at the end of the room and acted as “bookie.”
The fruitlessness of my companion’s search was growing a trifle monotonous, when, on entering the fourth of these rooms, he seized my arm and nodded in the direction of a tall, stout man who had emerged from the crowd and stood counting over a large roll of bills. At last he seemed satisfied, slipped an elastic band round the roll, and strode out into the street.
“Come on,” whispered my companion, excitedly; “that’s my man.”
Not far from the door he tapped the stranger on the shoulder. The tall man faced about with surprising swiftness.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I know all about you,” said my companion, evenly.
The collapse was sudden; the tall man’s jaw dropped perceptibly.
“Come farther away and I’ll listen to you,” he said, with a furtive glance at the pool-room doors.
Round a quiet corner my companion stated his business, and the wire-tapper brought out his roll of bills and fingered them feverishly.
“This is blackmail,” he whined; “but how much do you want?”
“It’s not blackmail, and I want none of your money,” protested my companion, indignantly. “All you have to do is to take my money and place it on the right horse. Here are ten dollars for a start. I shall watch you go in and come out of the pool-room from this corner.”
The wire-tapper had hardly left us when a little boy of thirteen or fourteen ran up to him with a note; then he disappeared through the swinging doors.
Presently the wire-tapper came out and, without a word, counted thirty dollar bills into the other’s hand.
“The price was only two to one,” he explained, apologetically.
“Never mind,” said my companion; “better luck next time. Just place this thirty dollars for me, and that will do—for the present.”
The process was repeated, and this time ninety dollars changed hands; but the wire-tapper was evidently nervous and anxious to be gone, and when my companion tentatively suggested a third attempt he refused point-blank, on the ground that if he won any more that day it would arouse suspicion. This objection, however, was overruled by the other offering to place the money himself.
“And we’ll make the amount worth while; shall we?” he added, turning to me. “Do you feel inclined to join me in a hundred-dollar bet?”
Fifty dollars meant a good deal to me then, but the two or three hundred it would bring in meant a great deal more, so I took the plunge. After another note had changed hands between the wire-tapper and the boy, he told us to back Rough Diamond for the next race, and threw in fifty dollars as his own stake; then we took up our position on the opposite pavement and waited expectantly.
To my surprise my companion soon appeared and exultantly informed us that he had succeeded in placing our stake on Rough Diamond to win at three to one.
“To win?” roared the wire-tapper.
“Yes, to win,” retorted the other, feebly.
The wire-tapper literally danced on the pavement.
“You fool!” he spluttered; “I told you to back the horse for a place this time—it has come in third.” He turned to me. “Didn’t I say for a place?” he snapped, vehemently.
But I took no further interest in the proceedings. In Western parlance, I had been “done brown.” The men were confederates, and all that was left for me to do was to swallow my medicine without grimacing. So I smiled blandly, congratulated them on their acting, and left them to marvel at man’s credulity.
It all sounds very foolish and easy, set down in black and white, but the San Franciscan “confidence man,” by long and unhampered practice, has reduced his methods to a fine art; and although it is hardly likely that any respectable, level-headed reader of The Wide World would fall a victim to his wiles, such a thing has been known to occur to others, and if the foregoing personal experience helps to put these on their guard, the purpose of its recounting will be served.
II.—A SHARP LESSON.
By R. L. C. Morrison.
In November of the year 1885, when I had reached the mature age of seventeen, I found myself in Glasgow, my native city, in the service of an uncle of mine named Mr. James Thomson, who was a merchant tailor and Colonial outfitter in Hope Street.
One afternoon towards the end of the month my uncle gave me instructions to call at the offices of a well-known firm in the neighbourhood of Jamaica Street.
I was to collect an account, whose total represented a substantial sum, and give a receipt for the money. There would, I was told, be no difficulty about drawing what was due, as the firm in question had duly intimated to my uncle that if he would present the account on a certain date payment would be made then and there.
It was close upon three o’clock when I put in an appearance at the counting-house of the firm, taking up my position in a somewhat extended queue of clerks and others who had arrived on the same errand as myself.
The queue was arranged in single file along a passage of considerable length on the second storey, to reach which a flight of something like a score of steps had to be ascended.
Right away at the far end of this passage was what had all the appearance of a railway station booking office, where, behind a square aperture of limited dimensions, stood the sharp-witted cashier.
I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account.
“All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it.
I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand over them for safety’s sake.
Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more briskly negotiated the stairs.
I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and beckoned me to stop.
Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado, waiting for him to come up with me.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back, and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he extended it towards me.
“I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ——’s office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained.
I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could direct him to Hope Street.
As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller, however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more resumed my walk.
The next moment he laid a daintily-gloved hand on my shoulder, and, with an engaging smile, said, with the utmost good humour, “But surely a glass of lemonade or ginger-beer cannot do you any harm?”
There was a strange magnetism about the man which carried me away, and I meekly surrendered myself to his will.
“Let us turn up this street,” he said, suddenly. “I know a nice little quiet place where we can have a drink in comfort.”
I followed him. Strange as it may seem, I was for the time being incapable of resistance. Perhaps my new-found friend was a hypnotist, or something of the kind; if he did not actually possess occult powers, he certainly had the gift in a very marked degree of ingratiating himself with strangers.
As we walked along side by side he kept up a lively and interesting conversation, touching lightly upon a variety of subjects. He evidently possessed a well-stored mind, for his fund of knowledge and anecdote seemed almost inexhaustible.
I became so interested in what he was telling me—wonderful adventures he said he had had in South America, and a graphic description of how diamonds are found—that I did not notice where I was being led. All I know is that we traversed street after street, until at length the man whom I had offered to guide to Hope Street had taken me to a part of the city in which I never remember having previously been.
“’EXCUSE ME, SIR,’ HE SAID, WITH MUCH POLITENESS, AT THE SAME TIME SLIGHTLY RAISING HIS HAT, ‘BUT I BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR HANDKERCHIEF.’”
Then suddenly he halted in front of a most respectable-looking whisky shop—in England we call them public-houses—situated in a broad thoroughfare, busy with plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic. It did not strike me as being a particularly “quiet” place; in fact, whilst it may have been comfortable enough inside, its exterior surroundings were not likely to recommend it to those in search of solitude.
“Here we are, my young friend,” he said, with that smile which had now become almost irresistible to me.
The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,” immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the saloon was common to them all.
“Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be quieter, and no one will disturb us.”
We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened, serving to let in a rather subdued light.
Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the columns of a newspaper.
My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice, “It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”
Looking up from his paper “our friend” adjusted his spectacles and regarded us both with a quizzical expression.
“Come in; don’t mind me,” he said at length, as if satisfied with our appearance, and we sat down at the table, my companion on one side, I on the other, the first occupant taking no further notice of us.
“I’m going to have a toothful of whisky,” said my fashionably-dressed vis-à-vis. “Will you have the same?”
I diffidently demurred at the proposal, as all alcoholic beverages were then to me as a sealed book, and in the end a bottle of lemonade was ordered for me.
And there I sat, sipping the lemonade and nervously fingering the bundle of notes in my trousers pocket.
I had found my friend very agreeable, very pleasant, and very entertaining, and would not have objected to remaining a little longer with him, but that I felt my employer would be expecting my return with the money he had sent me out to collect. Accordingly, drinking up my beverage, I presently rose and said I was afraid I must be going.
“Oh, there is no hurry, my boy,” he said, with such cordiality that I sat down again—but it should be only for a couple of minutes, I told myself.
“That’s right; make yourself comfortable, and we’ll have another drink in.”
I protested that I had had quite sufficient and that I must not linger, as I was expected back.
“A few minutes more or less will hardly make any difference,” he remarked, “and, besides, if you will only wait I shall be coming your way, for you know you promised to show me the way to Hope Street.”
I am afraid my resolutions about going were somewhat feeble, for he again persuaded me to sit down.
Meanwhile the old gentleman at the other end of the narrow table went on reading his paper. He might have had the place to himself for all the notice he took of us.
Suddenly my companion ceased speaking to me (the conversation had by some means or other turned on the subject of trains), and diving his hand into a side pocket produced a new railway-carriage key, very bright and very shiny.
I wondered what he intended to do with it, and even got so far as speculating upon whether he was a manufacturer of this class of goods, or travelled for the people who made them.
Then he tapped the key lightly on the edge of the table, and, addressing the old gentleman, said, politely: “Is this article of any service to you, sir? Excuse the apparent liberty, but I can offer you these keys at the small sum of sixpence each.”
I looked in the direction of the old gentleman and saw that he had put his paper on one side and was regarding my companion with a pleasant smile.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he replied, softly; “but as I very rarely travel I have no use for such a key.”
“Never mind,” remarked the other; “I’ll tell you what we’ll do—we’ll just ‘cut’ for it,” and without any further explanation at the moment he drew from his breast pocket what I took to be three ordinary playing-cards. The same pattern embellished the back of each, but when they were turned face upwards I observed that two of them were blanks, whilst on the other was a highly-coloured representation of a lady’s head and shoulders. I recollect that the hues in which the charms of this female were depicted were very varied, so that in combination they presented a dazzling picture.
Although the word “cut” had been made use of as applicable to the cards, it was rather a misnomer. “Double shuffle,” with a peculiar movement, would more fittingly describe what subsequently happened.
“Now, whichever of you two can first tell me where the lady is I will present with this key as a prize,” said the young man. As he spoke he made a pretence of shuffling the cards up in his hands, and then proceeded to lay them face downwards on the table, but before he finally allowed them to remain he exhibited the face of each card, so that I thought nothing could possibly be easier than to indicate where the lady’s head lay.
“You try first, sir,” said my friend to the old gentleman, and he singled out the card which I was absolutely certain was the wrong one, and so it was, as it turned out.
“Your turn, my boy,” cried the stranger, having rearranged the cards, and without the slightest hesitation I displayed the female’s head to view.
“Very good; here’s your prize,” and he pushed the key across the table to me.
“Just by way of a change, I will bet each of you sixpence that neither of you can pick out the lady’s head this time,” he said; but hardly had the words been spoken than the door of the “snug” was quietly opened and an elderly man stood framed in the open space.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized; “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Won’t you come in and join us, sir?” cried my companion, insinuatingly. “Just a quiet little game together; only sixpenny stakes.”
“Oh, well, I don’t mind if I do,” replied the new-comer, and without further ceremony he seated himself on the other side of me and fixed his eyes intently on the cards, which the other was manipulating with both hands.
By this time the old gentleman gave every sign of being deeply interested in the proceedings, and had taken a number of sixpences from his pocket, which he placed in a little heap at his side.
The new-comer and I also produced the necessary coin and staked it on the “lady.”
The old gentleman was the first to try his luck, but he failed to locate the whereabouts of the fair one.
Then the cards were taken up and rearranged, when the new arrival had a flutter, but he likewise parted with his sixpence.
“How stupid these men must be!” I thought, as the cards were being prepared for a third set out, when, of course, I immediately spotted the “lady” and was paid over the sixpence.
“Double stakes now,” cried the manipulator.
Nothing loath, I put my shilling down, and again I was the only victor.
Well, to cut a long story short, my companion went on doubling the stakes until they stood at sixteen shillings. Up to now I had been the only winner. I had not lost a single penny; as a matter of fact, I was fifteen and sixpence to the good, but when I tried to find the “lady” when the stakes stood at sixteen shillings I signally failed, and had to pay over all my winnings, with an additional sixpence.
By this time I was fairly infected with the game, and had thrown all discretion to the winds with regard to my return to the office. I felt confident that I could win a lot of money, and up to this point had not the faintest suspicion that I was in the midst of a gang of card-sharpers of whose modus operandi of working the business I was now being given a practical demonstration. Therefore, when the leader of the coterie, the man, who had “hooked” me outside, suggested that the stakes should be thirty-two shillings I made no demur, but blindly accepted, fondly imagining that by exercising a little care in watching where the cards were placed I should be able to spot the “lady.”
“Now, gentlemen,” cried the card manipulator, deliberately holding up the picture card to our view every two or three shuffles, so that I was able to follow its fortunes with the greatest ease, “there is the lady! Just watch carefully where I place her.”
As I had been the last loser it was my turn to pick out the picture, and as he placed the winning card in the centre (I could have sworn he did) I did not hesitate to indicate my choice by at once turning it face upwards, when, lo and behold! all that met my gaze was a plain white surface. Instead of being in the middle, the “lady” was at the right of me, though how this sleight-of-hand trick had been accomplished under my very eyes without my detecting it was past my comprehension.
“Thank you,” said the swindler, suavely; “thirty-two shillings, please”; and after some fumbling in my trousers pocket I succeeded in detaching two pound notes from the roll.
“Eight shillings change,” he remarked, genially, and handed me over the silver.
Inconceivable as it may appear, it is nevertheless the fact that even this “fleecing” did not arouse my suspicion as to the bona fides of the proceedings in which I was being made the victim. Possibly I was too excited at the moment to give this aspect of the matter a thought. My chief concern just then was to recover the money I had lost—not my own money, it should be remembered, but my employer’s.
At the suggestion of the old gentleman, who had not up to the present won a penny, and yet struck me as taking his “bad luck” very philosophically, the stakes were increased to three pounds—“so as to” (I use his own ingenuous phrase) “give the young gentleman and myself a chance.”
I sprang at the bait. Indeed, I was desperately in earnest, and mentally vowed that I must win this time at all costs.
Need it be recorded that I lost?
The card on the left—my choice—was not the “lady,” and three more notes were separated from the roll in my pocket.
Then, and not till then, did the real situation dawn upon me—I was in the hands of a gang of “three-card” tricksters. I had over forty pounds, which was not mine, on me, and the fashionably-attired stranger who had ingratiated himself into my good graces by some mysterious means was fully aware of that fact. The whole thing, in short, was a cleverly-laid plot to despoil me of my employer’s money.
As the full truth burst upon me I rose from my seat without a word and made my way to the door, intending to seek the landlord’s assistance.
But it was locked from outside! Bending down and applying my eye to the lock I saw the key inserted on the saloon side. This discovery I accepted as furnishing positive proof of the existence of a conspiracy to rob me. As I stood at the locked door, making up my mind that the next step should be on my part, the man who had lured me into the place plucked me by the coat-sleeve and begged me with gentle words to resume my seat and “talk matters over.”
“Give me my money back!” I cried, impetuously, pointing to the five notes which lay on the table. “It does not belong to me,” I went on, entreatingly. “It is my employer’s, and I cannot return to him without it.”
The two other confederates looked at me with sympathetic glances; then I fancied I saw an exchange of eye telegraphy between them and the leader.
“Of course, none of us want to get you into trouble,” he said, soothingly, at the same time pushing me gently back into my seat and taking his place opposite me, “but you must admit that you were willing enough to play the game. No one forced you to it, and what you have lost has been lost in square play.”
“But why is the door locked if it is all fair and above-board?” I shouted, excitedly.
“What! the door locked?” they cried in chorus, with well-simulated amazement.
“Yes, locked from outside,” I continued.
“Ah, from the outside,” replied the leader, smilingly. “That proves we have nothing to do with it. It is an accident, a mistake on the part of someone in the saloon.”
Although I did not believe a word of this, for I was now fully convinced that the landlord was also in league with these scoundrels, I made no further allusion to it, having made up my mind to a certain plan by which I hoped to regain possession of the money and make my escape from this den.
I instinctively knew that a proposal for further play was going to be made me on the plea of giving me a chance of recouping my losses, and for the purposes of the desperate plan I had decided upon this was exactly what I wanted.
“Now, my boy,” began the leader, in his friendly way, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do to give you a chance. I’ll lay you ten pounds to two pounds on the next round, and only you and I will play. You shall watch me as closely as you like, and no doubt you will win.”
“I will agree,” I assented, “on condition that the door is unlocked and the key brought inside and placed on the table.”
It was a bold move on my part, and I trembled for the answer, because upon this one point depended to a very great extent the success of the desperate plan I had thought of to escape, and at the same time regain my employer’s money.
Evidently sure of their quarry, and all unsuspicious as to my intentions, the trio at once agreed to the proposal.
The landlord was called—and bullied—the door unlocked, and the key placed on the table by my side.
Then the cards were laid out afresh, and I made another effort to “spot” the “lady,” although I was morally certain that I should fail.
I did, and handed over two more pound notes, which the dealer placed with the five others, lying loosely by his side.
In my jacket pocket I had a large sailors’ clasp knife, with a murderous-looking blade nearly five inches long, and while my vis-à-vis was picking up the cards preparatory to another deal, I having consented to play for the same stakes again, I surreptitiously got this weapon out and opened it under cover of the table.
The seven Bank of Scotland pound notes lay carelessly bunched together opposite me on the side of the table and within easy reach, whilst the door of the “snug” was but a couple of feet away from where I sat, I being nearest to it.
The next moment I saw my opportunity and seized it.
As the dealer manipulated the cards, he, as he had done all through, spread out his hand over a card for a couple of seconds. I clutched the open knife firmly in my right hand, and before any one of those present could have the slightest idea of my intentions I bounded to my feet, raised my arm in the air, and the next instant had pinned the sharper’s hand to the table with the long, keen blade!
With his scream of agony ringing in my ears, and the sight of the knife quivering in his hand photographed, as it were, upon my vision, I grabbed at the loose notes which lay in front of me, bunched them up into the palm of my hand, and, leaving the knife where I had driven it, flung open the door of the “snug” and bounded through the saloon and out into the busy street.
“THE NEXT INSTANT I HAD PINNED THE SHARPER’S HAND TO THE TABLE WITH THE LONG, KEEN BLADE!”
Though the recital of this incident occupies some little time in the telling, it was all accomplished in the space of a few seconds, and as soon as I found myself mixed up with the traffic outside I considered I was safe from pursuit—if, indeed, it had ever been likely any attempt would be made by the sharpers to run me to earth.
I reached my uncle’s place of business an hour or two later than I should have done in the ordinary course, but gave some plausible excuse for my delay.
He was inclined to be angry at first, but as I produced the money all right he did not pursue the matter further, although it was not until a considerable time afterwards that I ventured to give any of my relations an account of my exciting adventure with the card-sharpers.
III.—“SEEING IT OUT.”
By Albert E. MacGrotty.
The simple-minded and innocent Britisher may, on his first trip to the States, now and then walk into a very pretty little trap, neatly and carefully planned, like the web of the wily spider in wait for the inoffensive, curiosity-prompted, blundering fly.
I suppose I must have a somewhat unsophisticated aspect, which disguises all my dark and deep wisdom, and this appearance caused me to be selected as the victim of the little adventure I am going to recount.
It was at the close of my first visit to the States, and the day previous to my embarking for old England—all my business finished, and nothing to do but to say “Good-bye” to my friends and take a last look round.
I left the Astor House, valise in hand, and walked to the steamer Teutonic lying alongside the wharf, ready to sail for Liverpool on the following day. Having put my bag in my state-room, I strolled into Houston Street with the intention of getting on a cable car for the Broadway, where I was to lunch with a cousin. No cable car being in sight, I leisurely lit a cigar and turned round to inspect the goods in a store window. I had not been gazing therein more than a moment when I heard a buggy drive up and stop behind me, and someone shout, “Hey!” I paid no attention, being almost a stranger in New York, and not supposing that the call was addressed to me, especially as Houston Street is one of the most crowded thoroughfares in the city.
The call was repeated, but still I took no notice. When I had finished my inspection of the window I turned round, and to my astonishment saw that a respectable-looking man in the buggy was endeavouring to attract my attention. I went up to him and asked what his business was with me; he replied that he wished to know if I could tell him when the steamer left for England. “Do you mean the Teutonic?” I said, and he answered, “Yes.”
“To-morrow morning at seven,” I replied. He thanked me, and was just whipping up his horse to drive on, when he suddenly pulled up again sharply, and said:—
“Excuse me, sir, but the reason I asked you about the steamer is that my guv’nor told me to try to find a respectable old gent who was sailing in the boat for England, and ask him if he would mind looking after his nephew, who is a boy of ten.”
“I hope you’ve found one,” I told him, smiling.
MR. ALBERT E. MACGROTTY.
From a Photograph.
“I’ve come across no one, except yourself,” replied the man.
“Well,” said I, “as the boy is going over alone, if your master will bring him on to the steamer I will look out for him, and endeavour to keep an eye upon him during the voyage and make the trip pleasant to him.”
He thanked me most effusively, and said he was sure that I would be the right person to look after the boy, adding that his master would not think of giving me this trouble unless I would consent to receive payment, say a hundred dollars. I was taken aback by this latter suggestion, and rapidly came to the conclusion that the man’s so-called “guv’nor” must be one of the sharpers of New York. Up to this time, I must acknowledge, I had fully believed the fellow’s statements to be genuine.
I replied that I could not accept any such payment for the little I could do for the boy on the ship, whereupon the man again thanked me warmly, and asked me if I would come to his master’s house in order that he might introduce me. I declined; but, seeing no cable car coming along, it flashed across my mind that I would make use of him a little, so I asked which way he was driving, as I wanted to get to the upper end of Broadway.
“Jump in, sir!” he cried, whereupon I thanked him, and accepted the invitation.
I should not, of course, have done this had I not been fairly well acquainted with New York and able to tell that he was taking me in the right direction. We drove rapidly, and his conversation was clever and amusing. He asked me if I knew California?
“Yes, I have just come from there,” I told him. He seemed greatly pleased at this. Did I know Governor Stanford? I had not that pleasure, though I knew him well by name. My driver said that he was sorry for that, as the Governor was a relative of his master’s.
By this time we were in the Broadway, close to my cousin’s office, and seeing this I asked the man to pull up, but he begged me to go on and see his guv’nor, as it was only one block farther.
I still had half an hour to spare before lunch, and, though my suspicions were now thoroughly aroused, some impish spirit prompted me to “see the thing out,” so I said, “Very well, drive on.”
The man pulled up at the end of the block, and fixed his horse to the halter found in all New York streets for that purpose. I jumped out and we entered a stable, I taking care to keep close to the large open door. Needless to say, I scrutinized the floor closely and rapidly for trap-doors, but none appeared. My companion asked an ostler, who was rubbing down one of several horses, if the “guv’nor” was in. The man said “no,” but he would be back in a few minutes. I then informed the driver that I could not wait, and had better see him in the morning on the steamer.
“One minute,” replied the fellow; “if you will be good enough, I have only to go to No. 4, and will bring my guv’nor back with me.” With that he disappeared.
While we waited the ostler made one or two friendly remarks concerning the weather, and a moment later a gentleman, attired in a very handsome fur-lined coat, silk hat, and kid gloves of a light and delicate tint, walked into the stable from the street outside. My late companion followed, and, addressing me, said: “This is Dr. Coombs, sir,” observing to the doctor that I had offered to look after his nephew on the steamer without any payment. Dr. Coombs thanked me in a gentlemanlike manner, and appeared in all respects a well-bred man.
The doctor then turned to his coachman and told him to fetch the boy, explaining to me that his nephew was a ward in Chancery, and that he would become possessed of a fortune of over ten million dollars on attaining his majority. Being the boy’s guardian, he was anxious that some responsible person should keep an eye upon him during his voyage to England, where another uncle would meet him. We were only talking for a short time, but I noticed that the doctor was somewhat restless, moving frequently towards the stalls containing the horses, all of which, he remarked, belonged to his nephew. Still I could not shake off a certain suspicion of my surroundings, and would not move from the door.
We had been waiting about five minutes when a big, horsy-looking fellow lounged in from the street, shouting at the top of a loud voice: “Is the boss in?”
My friend in the fur coat came forward, politely raised his hat, said he was the master, and asked the stranger’s business.
The new-comer, pointing to a grey mare in one of the stalls, replied, “I had that mare out yesterday, and I want to know, boss, what you’ll take for her,” at the same time handing the doctor his card. Both men were at a little distance from me, and a few words passed between them which I did not hear. Then the fur-coated gentleman came up to me, saying, “Excuse me a minute; I can’t understand why the boy is so long; I will go and fetch him myself!” With that he left me with stranger number three.
This fellow continued to examine the horses, making remarks upon them to the ostler, and then, to my surprise, suddenly said to me, pointing to the grey mare, that he wanted to buy it; but “the boss” could not sell it to him, as he was an agent in Boston for buying and selling horses, the same line as “the boss” himself was in, and there was a State law prohibiting dealings between agents in the same business. He next asked me if I would help him in the transaction. I replied that I was sorry I could not see my way to do so.
“I wish you could,” said the stranger. “I would give eight hundred and fifty dollars for the mare; she is a valuable beast.” As he spoke the doctor returned. The Bostonian promptly told him he could see a way to a deal, as that gentleman (pointing to me) would buy the mare with his money, and then he in turn would purchase her from me, adding, “Now, boss, what’s your price?”
“Eight hundred dollars,” replied the doctor.
“There,” said the Boston dealer to me; “I told you I would give eight hundred and fifty dollars. Complete the purchase, and I will pay you the fifty dollars for commission.”
The doctor chimed in that he also would give me five per cent.—forty dollars.
“Gentlemen,” I said, laughing, “that is ninety dollars—a good morning’s work. But do you expect me to be carrying eight hundred dollars in my pocket through the streets of New York?”
They looked depressed at this; then the Bostonian, becoming suddenly cheerful, suggested that if “the gentleman” would pay ten per cent, of the value of the mare, he would pay the balance. The doctor agreed immediately, and the Bostonian pulled out a roll of green-backs from his pocket. Asking me to take the money, he placed a twenty-dollar note in my hand, and while he was taking another from the roll I raised it slightly as if I was weighing it; I saw at once that the note was a forged one—some of the letters upon it were smudged. It was not even a good imitation.
Both men read in my face that I had detected their fraud, and the expression of their countenances became diabolical. However, the Boston man went on pushing notes in my hand until he reached one hundred and fifty dollars, when the doctor pulled him up, saying that he must have the ten per cent. from me first. I saw the time had come for action, and so, allowing the notes to drop to the floor, I told them sternly that if I had been remaining in New York I should have had them arrested. I then left the premises immediately. Looking back, I saw the “doctor” rushing down some steps in front of the building, hurriedly throwing off his fur coat as he went, and the other man walking rapidly down the street in the opposite direction.
“ALLOWING THE NOTES TO DROP TO THE FLOOR, I TOLD THEM STERNLY THAT IF I HAD BEEN REMAINING IN NEW YORK I SHOULD HAVE HAD THEM ARRESTED.”
In conclusion, I may say that I was very glad to arrive at the Sinclair House and drink a stiff glass of brandy, as I was a trifle shaky, swearing to myself that I would never again risk pocket and life with mysterious strangers in the city of New York, even for the sake of “seeing it out.”
IN THE LAND OF THE REINDEER.
By H. Chusseau-Flaviens.
A WINTER SCENE IN “THE LAND OF THE REINDEER”—A LAPP MAGNATE MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ESTATE.
From a Photograph.
An article dealing with a strange and little-known people—the Lapps. Living in a country where practically nothing grows, their whole lives are occupied with the reindeer, the one product of Lapland. A man’s wealth is reckoned in reindeer; he eats its flesh and drinks its blood for food, and his clothes are made of its skin. Small wonder, therefore, that the moss on which the animals live is more important to him than cereal crops, and that the highest form of Lapp art finds expression in the carving of reindeer bones. Photographs by the Author.
Some little time ago I was in Sweden, and was strongly advised by my friends to take the opportunity of visiting Lapland, that strange country of reindeer and semi-savages. I was given a letter of introduction to a certain Lapp magnate, who, I was assured, was the most educated and advanced person in the country, and who would see that I saw everything worth seeing. “Go and interview him,” said my informant, “though I cannot promise that you will be able to get him to talk. The Lapps are very reticent; they will never tell you, for instance, how many reindeer they possess. Mickel Nilsson Nia, to whom I am giving you this letter of recommendation, is wealthy and educated, yet he covers himself with reindeer skins like the humblest of his herdsmen, drinks the warm blood of the animal he kills, and thinks no dish more succulent than a sort of cake made of reindeer blood mixed with flour! He is a splendid specimen of a people who have at once assimilated and resisted civilization.”
I began to think it might be worth my while to visit these curious folk, and in pursuit of information sought out another acquaintance, a colonel in the Swedish army.
He told me that the Lapps are very fond of stimulating drinks; they think nothing of drinking fifteen or twenty cups of coffee a day, while their consumption of punch is on a vast scale. It is no uncommon thing to see numbers of helplessly drunk natives in the streets of Tromsö, especially when the sale of reindeer flesh has been profitable. Yet robbery and, indeed, crime in general are practically unknown among them; the innate honesty of the people is quite extraordinary. The colonel gave me an example. “As, perhaps, you may have heard,” he said, “I am very keen on hunting both the wolf and the bear. On one occasion, accompanied by a Laplander, I was out after an enormous she-wolf, but the animal succeeded in completely baffling us. Finally, despairing of success, I abandoned the pursuit. A few days subsequently I was much surprised to receive a visit from my Lapp. With him he brought the wolf’s skin, which he insisted on my accepting; he had come up with the creature and killed it after a long, weary chase of many hours. I told him that the skin belonged to him, but he would listen to no argument. ‘You must be paid back for the trouble you have had,’ he kept repeating, with a smile. ‘It would not be fair for me to keep all the advantage for myself.’
A LAPP MOTHER AND CHILD IN HOLIDAY ATTIRE—SO TIGHTLY SWATHED IS THE INFANT IN ITS CURIOUS “CASE” THAT IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE FOR THE POOR LITTLE MITE TO GROW.
From a Photograph.
“But go to the country and see things for yourself,” concluded my friend. “Try and speak with Mickel Nilsson Nia; but, above all things, make up your mind to practise patience. Nobody in Lapland appreciates the value of time in the slightest degree; a Lapp thinks nothing of turning up at an appointment six hours too soon or six hours too late. You must also be careful to be invariably most scrupulously polite to them. Their pride is boundless; they are persuaded they are almost divine. Their account of their origin is that, God having decided to submerge the world in the Deluge, everything living was drowned by the heavy rain, with the exception of two Laplanders, a man and a woman. These two God took under his charge and led to Vasso-Varra, where the couple separated, the man proceeding in one direction, the woman in another. For three years they pursued their respective paths, and at the end of that time found themselves again at Vasso Varra. On their travels neither had encountered a living soul. Three separate times did they repeat the experience. When nine years had elapsed they came to the conclusion that in the whole world they were the only inhabitants, and consequently they decided to marry one another. They had a very large family, and to-day the whole earth is peopled with their children; those who do not live in Lapland are degenerates!”
A TYPICAL LAPP PEASANT.
From a Photograph.
Well, I went to Lapland, eager to see the semi-savages of whom I had heard so much. It is unnecessary to describe the earlier stages of my journey. Tromsö, Hammerfest, and Lyngseedt, though much frequented, are but large villages in the neighbourhood of which the nomad Lapps pasture their reindeer. The animals feed on a sort of lichen, termed reindeer moss, which, during the autumn, covers the mountains with what looks like a mantle of snow.
The natives live in primitive wattle and mud huts, and I found entire families living in paternal promiscuity with their animals in what—judged by the usual standards—was a most pestilential atmosphere, the predominating feature of which was a nauseous mingled odour of leather and boiled coffee.
As to the people themselves, the typical Laplander, with whom I grew familiar, was, by no means a disagreeable type. Many of the older men bear a strange resemblance to French peasants, having the same dark skin, black hair, large mouth, thin face, prominent cheek-bones, and long, pointed chin. Even in the most wretched hovels I was offered a cup of coffee, accompanied by polite gestures that would have been appropriate for the bestowal of Royal hospitality. In exchange for this courtesy I usually presented my hosts with chocolate sweetmeats, which were received with transports of gratitude. My general impression, however, was that I was among a very primitive peasant race, but I am bound to admit that the Laplanders fell in with all my requirements as a photographer with the utmost good grace; they invariably took the pose I required better than my own people, and never displayed any unseemly curiosity.
I had not forgotten the famous Mickel Nilsson Nia, and when I reached Nawick a Lapp schoolmistress there was kind enough to serve me as guide to the abode of her celebrated countryman. We walked for an hour through a most desolate stretch of country, which gave one the impression that it had been abandoned after some mighty natural cataclysm. In this landscape of death the only persons we met were a stray herdsman or two, miserably attired, driving before them a few attenuated reindeer. Suddenly my guide stopped, exclaiming, “Here is Mickel’s house.”
A LAPP WOMAN OF THE BETTER CLASS—MOST OF THE FEMALES HAVE A MARKED PREDILECTION FOR TOBACCO.
From a Photograph.
On the threshold two women were engaged in tanning reindeer hides. One of the women was elderly, the other quite young, yet they were attired in an almost identical manner. Each wore a short, coarse brown woollen skirt, beneath which were visible garments that resembled trousers made of bands of tightly-wound cloth. On their shoulders were grey shawls, on their feet enormous shoes of reindeer leather, on their heads bonnets of some blue material covered with lace. The colours usually employed in Lapp costumes, by the way, are white, black, grey, blue, and green; brighter hues are seldom seen.
At sight of us the two women ceased working to stare, and then broke out into a hearty laugh—not of derision, but of welcome. The Laplander is of an extremely jovial disposition, and invariably prides himself on the possession of some nickname—not always complimentary—bestowed upon him in jest. My guide addressed herself to the younger of the two women, who, in addition to the garments I have enumerated, wore some splendid reindeer furs. Then a young peasant came out of the hut, and there ensued a tremendous discussion, the result of which was to convince us that we had made a mistake—Mickel Nilsson’s hut was farther on. The young man volunteered to accompany us there.
MICKEL NILSSON NIA, THE “LAPP ROTHSCHILD,” WHO POSSESSES NINE THOUSAND HEAD OF REINDEER.
From a Photograph.
Finally, we came up to a group of men and women, in the centre of which, busily talking, a veritable Triton among minnows, was the person I sought. On the road I had, through my interpreter, been questioning our new companion, and had thus learned that Mickel Nilsson Nia was a sort of Lapp Rothschild, and possessed nine thousand head of reindeer. As each animal may be put down as worth roughly about a sovereign, the fortune of the little Lapp before me—who, hearing the object of my mission, had now put his finger to his cap and was wringing my hand with great affability—might be estimated at nine thousand pounds.
We had come upon him on a holiday, it appeared, and Mickel Nilsson Nia was arrayed in his very best clothes. On his head he wore a tall sugarloaf, peaked cap, topped by a bright red “pompon,” which gave it a most extraordinary aspect. His body was covered by a superb white reindeer skin—the gala costume—and on his vest glittered the medal bestowed upon him by King Oscar as a reward for his success in breeding reindeer. The man’s whole appearance, with his moustache, short beard, cunning eyes, and perpetual smile, reminded me strongly of Li Hung Chang, the Chinese statesman of illustrious memory, and also the richest man in his country.
Mickel Nilsson Nia courteously invited me to enter his hut. I hesitated for a moment, and then, with head bent low, bravely dashed into the malodorous atmosphere of leather and boiled coffee which I had already learned to dread. In the semi-gloom of the interior a mass of animals were wallowing about, though I could not see them very distinctly. I sank into a wicker arm-chair.
“A cup of coffee?”
“Many thanks.”
Into my hands was thrust a grotesquely-coloured cup, bearing the fateful legend, “Made in Germany.” Like a hero I gulped down the mixture it contained; to tell the truth, it was not unsavoury. Then I commenced to ask him a few questions.
“Are things prospering in the reindeer breeding?” I inquired.
FRATERNAL AFFECTION—FAMILY TIES ARE STRONG IN LAPLAND, AND EVEN THE BOYS LOOK AFTER THEIR BABY BROTHERS WITH THE UTMOST SOLICITUDE.
From a Photograph.
Mickel’s answer was strictly non-committal—neither a decided “yes” nor a “no.”
“How many animals do you possess?”
Again he evaded the direct answer with an unsatisfactory “Not so many as I once had.” Then he called my attention to a herd of some three hundred animals or so on the neighbouring hillside, but added immediately, as though fearing he had hinted too much, “They do not all belong to me, however; some are the property of my neighbours. The herdsman we share between us.”
After this I thought it as well to abandon commercial matters for literature. Mickel Nilsson Nia is a man of letters, devoting to books all the leisure his nomadic pursuits leave him. Of the literature of Lapland he spoke with pride.
“With us,” added Mickel, “literature is essentially popular. Our poets sing only of what they have actually under their eyes; they celebrate our daily life, our labours.” Here is a specimen of our poetry:—
The reindeer are in full flight.
Look at their wild flowing manes!
Look at the capricious animals!
Look how the noble creatures bound fleet-footed over the plain through the world!
At his topmost speed the man pursues them, sweat standing out in great beads.
“Ah, how fatigued I am!” he cries.
“And yet what would I not do to catch them!”
Oh, the precious animal!
What flesh, what a skin, what horns, what veins, what bones!
How excellent is all about him!
How excellent he is himself!
Ah, ah, ah!
Look! Look!
Two hundred, three hundred, thousands together!
Ever do they flee.
Into the lakes, into the snow do they cast themselves, seeking to get refreshed.
Only when the sun has set will they come forth.
Now the night has come; forth they dart.
Now it is day and they hide themselves; only the plaintive bleats of the young fall on the ear.
A VENDER OF SOUVENIRS—HE HAS DONE WELL AT HIS TRADE, AND HAS ACCORDINGLY TREATED HIMSELF TO A SPECIALLY-SMART CAP AND LUXURIOUS LAPP BOOTS.
From a Photograph.
As I was begging my interpreter to convey to Mickel Nilsson Nia my admiration of this stirring epic of hunting, my host picked up a bundle of Swedish illustrated papers from the corner and proceeded to make comments upon them. Just then, however, a herdsman entered with news of importance, so I rose and took my leave.
Accompanied by my two companions, I retraced my steps through the wild, desolate country, in which none but the most intrepid of sportsmen could find any pleasure. It is a land in which there are neither hotels nor houses; a land which seems to take one back to some remote age of innocence, when simple, honest human beings drove their flocks and herds before them, chanting the while a hymn to the delights of a pastoral life.
What souvenirs, you ask, can one carry away from this strange country, where the reindeer rules supreme, and which, without the presence of that useful animal, would sink into a condition of abject poverty and utter desolation? Appropriately enough, there is nothing but carved reindeer bones. Some are carved in so extraordinarily realistic and expert a fashion that more than one eminent sculptor to whom I have shown them has lifted his hands in admiration.
LAPP ARTISTS AT WORK CARVING REINDEER BONES.
From a Photograph.
Like all true artists worthy the name—like the Japanese, for instance—the Laplander will only reproduce what he sees. Consequently, in nine cases out of ten his carved reindeer bones show only reindeer—reindeer at rest, reindeer jumping, reindeer harnessed to sledges, and reindeer browsing. The thing becomes an absolute obsession. And what realism is displayed by these unconscious artists! What long hours of patient observation are implied by the life-like attitudes they depict, and which might almost have been photographed, so true are they to Nature! One gets the impression, watching the Lapp carver at work, that one is in the presence of an artisan of a bygone age, before rules had been laid down and become stereotyped—an age when each individual worker was guided by his personal inspiration alone.
After all, then, in this strange country, where there is supposed to be “nothing but reindeer,” one may still find among these half-savage people financiers—like Mickel Nilsson Nia—poets, and artists—types which certainly go to show that the Lapps possess some of the attributes of a civilized nation. Music alone is unknown in Lapland, and this may be because the Lapp, with his boundless pride of race, considers he has no need of its chastening and refining influence.
BUYING SOUVENIRS—STRIKING A BARGAIN WITH THE CURIO PEDLARS IS A LONG AND COMPLICATED BUSINESS.
From a Photograph.
“TAPU.”
By D. W. O. Fagan, of Mangapai, Whangarei, Auckland, New Zealand.
The author writes: “I can vouch for this story in every particular. I hope it may prove interesting to ’Wide World’ readers, as illustrating the endless ramifications of the old Maori law of ‘tapu,’ and the absurd predicaments in which Europeans coming under its influence occasionally found themselves.”
In the old days of thirty-five years ago, especially in the out-districts, the Maoris still retained many of their ancient customs.
Among other inconvenient practices they had an insane habit of depositing the bones of the dead in any kind of handy spot that took their fancy—on the top of an island, in a hollow tree, in the crevices of rocks—anywhere that was most convenient.
Afterwards the place became “tapu” (sacred, forbidden, prohibited). Consequently any unwary and unsuspecting stranger who, happening along, chanced to lean against the tree or tread on the rocks became himself “tapu” (meaning, in this connection, accursed, unclean), and was hunted from the tribe as a social leper and outcast. Like Cain, every man’s hand was against him, though it was forbidden to kill him; and unless he was a man of mark and could get the “tohunga” (priest) to “lift the ‘tapu’ off him” he speedily succumbed to a general sense of misery and superstitious bedevilment.
It is not my intention to attempt an explanation of the working of the “tapu” law. That has already been done by far abler pens than mine. My own opinion is that no one ever did properly understand it—not even the Maoris themselves.
In the beginning, probably, the thing was a decent and workable law enough, as laws go, but in the course of ages, what with amendments and addenda, it got beyond everything and was entirely indigestible by human intellect; finally becoming an incubus—a kind of religio-legal nightmare from which they couldn’t wake up.
I only know that any place, person, or thing could become “tapu.” Food, fire, air, and water were not free from it. Man, woman, and child were subject to it. For any trivial cause and without his knowledge a man might be made “tapu.”
Sometimes it was partial, affecting only the feet or hands, and on these occasions a man could put a “tapu” on himself by walking about or scratching his own head!
Anyhow, if you got a bad dose of it, things became pretty uncomfortable.
White men could generally escape by affecting to ignore the thing and taking ship for another country.
Unfortunately, as the reader will perceive, circumstances prevented my adoption of this course.
At the time I am telling of I was superintending their northern trading station at Te Mata for Messrs. Franks, Backhouse, and Co., a big Auckland firm. Puketawa—whom I have mentioned in previous Wide World contributions—a native of the South Island, educated at a mission school, was by way of being my servant and store-help. Having lived much with Europeans, and being ridiculously proud of the little the mission school had taught him, he affected to despise the Maoris of the neighbourhood. “Ignorant savages,” he called them, and stood aloof in the light of superior wisdom. At times he even permitted himself a mild remonstrance at what he considered my undue intimacy with the heathen. Education had made Puketawa a bit of a snob; but, for all that, he was a very good fellow.
The store, residence, and outbuildings stood on the shore of the tidal estuary of the Mangapai River. Over a low range of hills running parallel with the coast, at a distance of about half a mile, was the Maori “kainga” (village), having a population of about nine hundred souls.
It was with the object of bringing the blessings of civilization to these benighted inhabitants and—of course, quite incidentally—securing a profit to themselves that my principals had established the trading post.
Being the only station within a radius of fifty miles, trade was good, and neither merchants nor agent had reason for complaint on the score of value or bulk of the cargoes of native produce picked up by the firm’s trading steamer on its quarterly round.
By largess of sweets to the piccaninnies and gauds of cheap jewellery to their mothers, I had gained a certain popularity. With Te Horo, the chief, I was on terms of close friendship. I had quite won the old fellow’s heart by a timely gift of an imitation pearl necklace to his youngest and favourite wife. By careful tutelage I was fast inducing in these children of Nature a craving for the things of the white man’s higher life as represented by cotton goods, sugar, tea, tobacco, etc. For obvious reasons, therefore, I was anxious to retain their good will, and careful lest by any infringement of custom or superstition I should unwittingly offend. In the light of what follows this should be remembered.
The snipe were thick that autumn on the tidal flats at the river’s mouth, and as a break to the monotony and with a view to change of diet I would often close the store on Saturday afternoons and, with Puketawa, drop down stream on a gunning expedition.
It was on one of these weekly excursions that misfortune fell upon us. The birds were shy that day, and we followed them far over the sand-flats. Intent on our sport, neither of us noticed the signs of an ominous change in the weather, till, chancing to look seaward, I became suddenly aware of it. The blue water had changed in colour to a leaden grey and the horizon was hidden in a dense shroud of mist, which, with the wind behind it, was rapidly rolling up towards us. There was no time to lose. Our boat was at anchor a mile away on the inner edge of the sand-flat. It would be a race between us and the fog. If overtaken on those interminable banks we might wander, hopeless, till the returning tide drowned us like rats in a trap.
Fortune favoured us. We reached the boat, and, breathless, had just tumbled into it and hoisted sail, when the sea-fog shut down like a curtain. Sky, cliffs, and river channel were blotted out in an instant. No pretence at keeping a course was possible. The river ran due west, and, the wind coming from the east, it only remained to sit tight and let the boat scud before it, trusting to luck that we did not ram any one of the hundred rocky islets studding the river’s mouth.
Our vision, beyond a small circle of heaving grey water immediately around us, was shut in by the wall of thick white vapour. With Puketawa at the sheet, I at the steer-oar, we drove along in a little world of our own.
“IT ONLY REMAINED TO SIT TIGHT AND LET THE BOAT SCUD.”
Suddenly, at a yell from Puketawa, I looked up. A wall of rock loomed dark through the mist, before and above us! “Luff!” he screamed, but there was no time. Ere I could sweep her round with the oar a grey roller lifted under our stern, caught us broadside on its crest, rushed us through a providential cleft in the rocks, and, rolling over and over, we, with our belongings, were strewn broadcast on a little, sandy beach. The boat, though shaken, was still sound, and we quickly hauled it beyond the reach of the waves.
A short examination showed us we had been cast up on one of the very islands we had hoped to escape. Still, unpleasant though our predicament was, it could easily have been worse. In that thick haze we might well have been driven on the bluff cliffs of the headland and pounded to a jelly in the surf. At all events, we were on terra firma and could make the best of it till the fog lifted. In our drenched condition the wind was decidedly unpleasant, so, after securing the boat, we made haste to seek shelter on the lee side of the island.
As we groped our way up the rocks and over the top we came across a low-spreading puriri tree. Beneath it we found plenty of dry sticks, and, breaking off some dead branches also, we carried with us a good stock of firewood. I had matches in a waterproof case, and soon, in a snug rock-niche, we were warm and comfortable beside a roaring fire. We had managed to save some six brace of birds from the shipwreck, and these, skinned and toasted on the embers, with the contents of my flask to wash them down, made an excellent supper, with sufficient to spare for breakfast.
Dawn broke clear and calm, with just enough wind to take us on our homeward way. I had sent Puketawa for a further supply of wood, when a shout from above brought me scrambling up the rocks. There he stood, a living embodiment of terror. With wide eyes and dropping jaw he was staring at the hollow tree-trunk. Then I saw what it was. From the orifice, ghastly in the dim light, grinned two fleshless skeletons. Around the hole was heaped a pile of human bones and skulls, while other death’s-heads peered at us from crevices of the rocks. We were in a Maori “wahi-tapu” (cemetery).
THE ESTUARY OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.
From a Photograph.
It was yet another instance of the sheer “cussedness” of things in general. There were half a hundred islands to choose from; yet malignant Fate, aided by that confounded fog, must needs fix upon Taupiri on which to cast us up—Taupiri, the sacred island, where for centuries the bones of the chiefs had been deposited. It was consecrated to the “mana” (holiness) of their spirits, and frightfully “tapu.” No man might put foot on it and live. And we had not only passed the night there, but—horror of horrors!—had eaten food cooked with wood from the sacred tree! The loose stones, among which we had stumbled in the foggy night and had kicked from our path, were the skulls of the great dead. There was no doubt about it—we were “tapued” up to our necks. That it was purely accidental and through no fault of our own didn’t in the least matter. From the Maori point of view, indeed, it made the case infinitely worse. For Puketawa, whose civilization was, after all, only skin-deep, it was likely to prove a most serious affair. Brought thus face to face with the terrors of ancient superstition, his white man’s education fell to pieces. His mind swung back to the faith of his forbears and the fears of the old beliefs gripped his heart. He was for fleeing the accursed place at once, but, “tapu” or no “tapu,” I wasn’t going without breakfast. Puketawa refused food. Already I fancied he was getting “pourri” (depressed)—no light thing with a Maori, for I had known them before then to die of sheer melancholy. I realized that the accident was bad for me also if the thing should get known. I did not fancy being ostracized by the tribe, my goods confiscated and destroyed, and my house and store burnt by way of purification and to avert the anger of the gods.
“THERE HE STOOD, A LIVING EMBODIMENT OF TERROR.”
Though, on the way home, I was angry and contemptuous by turns, Puketawa refused to be comforted. To my ridicule or reproaches he answered only with a sickly smile. “No good,” he said. He was “tapu” right enough—could feel the spell “working inside him.” In vain I pointed out that the island was six miles distant from the “kainga,” hidden by a bend of the river, and that we had landed at night in a dense fog and had left again before sunrise.
“Ah!” he answered. “Te tohunga very wise. He know wi’out seein’.”
On arrival, contrary to custom, we found the beach below the store deserted. Not a soul was in sight. No Sunday crowd of mothers chatted as they squatted around the buildings; no piccaninnies dabbled in the water, and waited anxiously for sweets on my return. I knew these latter would not forego the weekly dole unless for serious cause. Could Puketawa be right after all? Had our infringement of “tapu” become known in some incomprehensible manner? It began to look very like it. That night at supper also Puketawa declined food. He even refused rum-punch, and when Puketawa refused rum things must be looking black indeed. He lay in his bunk with his face to the wall, silent save for long, shuddering sighs. So it went on through the night. Protests, reproaches, even vigorous shakings were of no avail; he lay like a log, with closed eyes, making no sign.
This was beyond a joke. No possibility of pretence was here. The man was dying, visibly, of sheer funk. Unless I could rouse him he would not live another day. I could not let him die, and, base surrender to heathen jugglery though it was, made up my mind to seek out the “tohunga” next day and entreat him to remove the spell.
In the long, dark watches I began to feel pretty queer myself. The silence seemed tangible, heavy, impermeable. I was not exactly frightened; the feeling was indescribable—a sort of nameless terror at nothing, a horror of some unknown impending fate against which it was useless to struggle and from which there was no escape. Mutuality, sympathy, hypnotism—call it what you will—a weight of fear lay on my senses, a veritable obsession of dread.
Was there any truth in heathen devilry after all, I wondered? Had the confounded “tapu” got me too? With an effort I shook off the growing lethargy and paced the floor through the night. In the morning I could eat nothing; food was repulsive. Shortly after sunrise I took my way to the “kainga.”
Within fifty yards of the gate I was warned by the young warriors to keep my distance. Presently Te Horo himself appeared in full war-paint of “korowai” (kilt) and feather mat, a spear in his hand.
“Thy sin is known,” he cried, sternly. “Come not near to bring contamination upon us. Thou and thy servant are accursed. It may be ye shall both die; I know not. Begone! At noon the ‘tohunga’ comes to confer with thee.”
As I sat beside the bewitched man and awaited the coming of the priest the night fears that had assailed me passed, giving place to a feeling of rising anger at the whole thing. Here was I—a fairly decent Englishman, reared in the Anglican faith and living in the nineteenth century—hindered from going about my business, outcast, excommunicated, shunned as a leper, my servant dying; all on account of some fiendish diablerie of heathen fetish. The affair was preposterous, incredible, ludicrous. Then I looked at poor Puketawa, moaning, prone in his bunk, and was answered. That at least was real.
Punctually at twelve o’clock the old “tohunga” came over the hill. He was a tall man, grey-headed and handsome, and in his full robes of office he looked imposing enough. Halting at a short distance he called us to come forth. I started forward to expostulate, but he waved me sternly back.
“Approach not,” he commanded. “You are unclean, you have incurred the anger of the great spirits. Yet will I intercede, and it may be purge you of the offence. Now, therefore, bring out your ‘taonga’ (goods) and everything that you have touched, in order that I may destroy it and the purging be complete.”
This was beyond a joke. Give up my household goods and knick-knacks to be burnt? Never! I’d see him hanged first.
“Be off, you old scallywag!” I shouted. “Give you my things, indeed!” And I began to tell him what I thought about it. He stood impassive, inexorable.
“Young man,” he answered, “be not mad. Fool! Can you fight the spirits? Look to your servant. Delay not, lest he die.”
This was unanswerable. I surrendered, and we carried the things out, Puketawa moving as though in a mesmeric dream. All my bachelor treasures, bedding, rugs, chairs, cooking-pots, and crockery—everything went. The pots and crockery he smashed with his tomahawk, the house and all else he burnt to ashes. Luckily, I had not been near the store, or that and its contents would have gone too.
What next, I wondered? Had the old heathen done with us? Evidently not.
“Remove your clothing,” he commanded. Here was a pretty state of things! Being naturally of a modest disposition, I demurred, at which he lost his temper.
“Hinder me not,” he cried. “Your life or death is naught to me. Beware, lest I depart and leave you to your fate.”
There was nothing for it but to comply. So, whilst our clothes were burning, Puketawa and I stood before him naked and unashamed.
Down to the creek, to the pool beneath the waterfall, the old priest drove us. The stream was full of snow-water from the mountains, and bitterly cold.
“Enter,” he ordered.
“Needs must when the devil drives,” and with a gulp we plunged in and stood shivering up to our necks, while for ten interminable minutes the old fellow chanted prayers and wove his “karakia” (spells) on the bank.
THE AUTHOR’S STORE ON THE BANKS OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.
From a Photograph.
At last it was over. We climbed out, and the “tohunga” sprinkled each of us, separately and solemnly, with a fern frond dipped in the water of the pool.
“It is enough,” he said. “The ‘tapu’ is lifted,” and walked away.
The humour of the situation appealed to me, and, cold and dripping though I was, I shouted with laughter. And you will admit the thing was fairly humorous. Imagine us, if you can, standing there, stripped of our worldly goods, naked and shivering—Puketawa, a prize convert from a mission station, and I, a Christian—brought to such a pass by miserable heathen wizardry that we had been glad to submit ourselves to the sorceries of the arch-wizard himself to escape the consequences of the spells that had been cast over us!
All the same, the effect of the hanky-panky on Puketawa was truly wonderful. Moribund before the arrival of the “tohunga,” he was a new man after the performance. He laughed with me, his dull eyes again became clear and bright, and he got quite chirpy; while, laugh as you will, even I, who had submitted to go through it only on Puketawa’s account and for the sake of trade, must confess to a sense of spiritual well-being to which I had been a stranger for some days.
With trade clothing from the store we clad our nakedness. The baptism business had given us an appetite, and we soon rummaged out a cold collation. Maoris are always fair trenchermen, but I never saw one put away such a feed as Puketawa did then. Eat? Long after I had finished I sat and watched the stuff disappearing—tinned salmon, potted beef, spiced ox-tongue, dried fish, ham and chicken, pine-apple, Worcester sauce. King Solomon in all his glory never had such an appetite.
Next day, as though to make amends for the inconvenience we had suffered, and show that the popular feeling was not directed against us but against the “tapu” alone, the Maoris flocked to the store with cash and barter, and I did the best day’s trade of my life. In two days they had built me a better house than that destroyed. It was as if the ceremony of purification had conferred a sort of brotherhood upon me, and I found myself on a better footing with them than ever before. I never discovered, however, how they learnt of our transgression.
To this day the question of how the “tohunga” became aware of our accidental presence on the sacred island remains a mystery. That we were alone there I am certain. Under the circumstances of the storm and the thick mist, it is equally certain our presence was not observed from the shore. The “kainga” was six miles distant, a range of hills intervening. It was a black night; Maoris are chary of being out after dark. Altogether the possibility of our having been seen may be dismissed. Puketawa, of course, leaned to the supernatural. Old stories of occultism practised by the priests, of spiritualism and uncanny mental telepathy with the spirit world, he told for my benefit. I do not like mystery, and have no leaning towards the occult, but, dismissing all this as unworthy of credence, there yet remains the query of how the “tohunga” knew of our “breaking of the ’wahi-tapu’” (breach of the sanctity of a burial-place).
In the fullness of his heart at my successful whitewashing, old Te Horo offered to give me his youngest and prettiest daughter in marriage, with a thousand acres of tribal land as a dowry. Between you and me, there have since been times when I have regretted that I didn’t clinch the bargain.
The Finches’ Festival.
A BIRD-SINGING COMPETITION IN FLANDERS.
By A. Pitcairn-Knowles.
Bird-singing competitions, in which substantial money prizes are awarded to the owner of the songster making the greatest number of “trills” in a specified time, are very popular in the North of France and Flanders. In this article the author describes and illustrates a typical bird-singing festival in a Flemish village. From photographs by the author.
The inhabitants of the rural district of that part of Belgium which goes by the name of Flanders seem to be possessed of a genius almost unique for instituting and organizing quaint and curious competitions designed to administer to that keen taste for friendly rivalry which is so characteristic of the population of King Leopold’s little domain. Any stranger penetrating into the heart of the country at the time of the year when many of the hamlets are about to hold their annual fairs—spun out to last a week, or even longer—cannot fail to be interested in the long posters adorning the walls of every “estaminet,” announcing a separate event for each day of the festive season, and testifying to the great hold this healthful spirit of emulation exercises upon the minds of these simple peasants.
Being one of those strangers in a strange land, I was overcome by a spirit of curiosity when a very limited acquaintance with the Flemish tongue helped me to the conclusion that the “Prijskamp voor Blinde Vinken,” announced for a certain Sunday at the untimely hour of seven in the morning, was a competition in which blind birds were to be the candidates for honour and distinction, and I resolved to be present at what promised to be a curiously interesting spectacle.
THE FINCH-OWNERS’ MEETING-PLACE AND HEADQUARTERS.
From a Photograph.
Setting out on my bicycle in the early dawn of a stormy morning, I was borne with the wind through one sleeping hamlet after another. The pulse of life had scarcely begun to stir; but when I reached my destination, as the clock struck six, and wended my way to the street with the well-nigh unpronounceable name where the great event was to take place, all was alive and bustling. Peasants of both sexes, representing every stage from tender childhood to decrepit old age, were strolling up and down or standing about in groups eagerly discussing the all-absorbing event which was about to commence—the contest of the blind finches.
ONE OF THE CAGES, SHOWING THE DOUBLE FRONT TO PROTECT THE LITTLE OCCUPANT FROM CATS.
From a Photograph.
At intervals men and boys clattered along in sabots, or proceeded with shuffling gait in gorgeously-coloured carpet slippers, bearing mysterious wooden boxes under their arms. I inquired into the nature of their burdens, and discovered that they contained cages which housed the chaffinches destined to take part in the competition. These cases, varying in size, bore little similarity to each other either in design or workmanship, for while some were roughly put together without any attempt at decoration, others, though evidently the work of the amateur, revealed traces of minute care and originality of construction, one being adorned with a rudely carved representation of the little imprisoned inmate, a work of art presumably executed by the owner himself or some village genius. A few of the boxes were really elaborate constructions, one in particular being made of highly-polished mahogany, on which figured a bird with outstretched wings, executed in relief ironwork.
THE BANNER OF A FINCH-OWNERS CLUB.
From a Photograph.
ONE OF THE JUDGES IN POSITION, READY TO SCORE THE NUMBER OF “TRILLS” EMITTED BY THE BIRD IN FRONT—NOTICE THE CURIOUS TALLY-STICK USED IN SCORING.
From a Photograph.
There was one spot in particular towards which the future competitors seemed to be attracted, a rustic inn, over whose portals the flag of the local finch-owners’ club waved lustily in the vigorous breeze, and the cheery greeting, “Vinkeniers Welkom,” attracted the attention of the passers-by. It was here that the organizers and competitors met for the purpose of settling all matters pertaining to the bird-singing contest. Even at 6 a.m. beer has irresistible fascination for the true native of Flanders, and it goes without saying that every entry for the competition called forth a request for at least one “bock” on the part of the competing bird-owner. Others, who came as mere spectators, followed his example, and soon the stream of conviviality flowed freely.
THE COMPETITORS AND JUDGES IN POSITION.
From a Photograph.
A few men and boys were already opening their boxes, and tenderly lifting out strong little wooden cages with double wire fronts, designed to withstand the attacks of that relentless foe to bird life—the domestic cat. Meanwhile numbers had been chalked on to the wall along the side of the road with the object of showing each competitor his place, and one by one the owners of the feathered songsters took up their positions, until I counted fifty-six competitors seated by the roadside, waiting for the signal to begin the contest. Some of these men had walked as far as twenty miles, and, having placed their boxes three yards apart, sat down with evident relief.
A JUDGE AT WORK—EACH MAN SCORES FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S BIRD, AND STEWARDS KEEP A CHECK UPON THEM TO INSURE FAIR PLAY.
From a Photograph.
During the interval of waiting I gathered from several communicative candidates that it is necessary to blind the little birds in these “concours,” as they would stop singing immediately they found themselves to be under observation. The eye itself is not injured, however, the closed eyelids being merely glued together, so to speak, by means of a slight touch with a hot iron. Needless to say, this operation must be performed by an experienced hand, otherwise part of the lid may be left open, in which case the front of the cage must be covered, or the shy little occupant will not sing. One is relieved to know that it is quite possible to restore the bird’s sight by separating the closed lids.
As the Belgian law does not permit such cruelty to be openly practised in the country, the birds are imported—or, to be more accurate, are supposed to be imported—from France. Even the catching of birds for the purpose of employing them in these curious contests is looked upon as illegal in Belgium, but laws of this kind are more easily made than enforced. Probably the Government thinks that by keeping this pastime under a control which appears to be severe it is doing its duty, and with this object in view it demands that each owner shall carry on his person a certificate containing the following words:—
“The undersigned, burgomaster of the town of ——, hereby declares that Mr. ——, of such a trade, living at ——, is the owner of blind chaffinches, with which he travels, and that he does not practise the trade of bird-selling.” For this guarantee a fee of a hundred francs is charged, it being necessary to obtain a new signature from the authorities every fortnight.
The success or failure of a bird entered in a contest depends upon the number of perfect “trills” made by the little competitor in a certain time—usually an hour. The best result my informant had ever known at a “concours” was one thousand and nineteen trills in the hour, and after setting up this record the bird readily sold for a hundred and twenty francs. As money prizes are invariably offered, these feathered songsters are often sources of profit as well as sport to their owners, a good chaffinch easily adding a hundred francs to the family exchequer.
But now let me relate how these competitions are managed and carried on. I doubt whether any of my readers have ever witnessed such a scene as I am about to describe, and a brief sketch of what came to pass in that out-of-the-way spot can hardly fail to interest those who enjoy a glimpse of peculiar, old-world practices.
A WELL-EARNED REST—HANGING THE WINNING BIRD UP IN THE SUNSHINE AFTER THE CONTEST.
From a Photograph.
As the clock of the village church laboriously chimed out its seventh stroke the manager of the competition, in a loud voice, issued the order for the contest to begin. At this there was a general stir. Each man took up a more or less business-like attitude in front of the cage of one of his opponents, every competitor acting as judge for someone else’s bird. Having produced his curious-looking marker—a thing resembling a four-sided yard-stick, painted black, with a handle either in the form of a knob or a ring at the top end—the men at once proceeded to chalk certain cabalistic signs thereupon, which a close observation showed me stood for the number of trills made by each bird—“Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” being a perfect trill. It is the fifth and last part of the warble upon which success really depends. If the final “chuiep” is not heard the feat is incomplete, and the little warbler is not credited with a chalk mark.
The silence was scarcely broken save for the shrill piping of the birds, and the seriousness exhibited by competitors and spectators alike would have done credit to the mourners at a funeral. It was curious to note the manner in which some of the less gravely-disposed owners spent the interval of waiting for their charges to distinguish themselves. Some were lightening the serious business of marking by occasional draughts of beer from huge tumblers, which they had, with wise forethought, placed close at hand. Others, with that calmness that comes from long practice, were puffing contentedly at short clay pipes, while the greater number—among whom were some very youthful competitors, evidently on their first trial—wore anxious expressions, never letting their eyes rest upon any other object than the cage and the scoring-stick entrusted to their care.
COLLECTING THE TALLY STICKS.
From a Photograph.
All this time the subdued talking among the group of interested spectators scarcely rose above the continued chirping of the birds, which seemed to become more and more shrill and vigorous as the moments passed, until, after the lapse of half an hour or so, each of the little songsters seemed ready to burst its little throat in its determination to make itself heard above its neighbours.
PLACING THE NET AND DECOY-BIRDS TO CAPTURE FINCHES.
From a Photograph.
At the commencement of the competition I had been under the pleasant impression that the little creatures, although selfishly deprived of the blessing of sight in order to administer to a somewhat barbaric form of human enjoyment, sang their early morning songs out of pure gladness of heart and “the wild joy of living,” but my fond delusion was soon nipped in the bud, for unmistakable notes of anger were by this time distinct, and it needed not the assurance of one of the spectators to convince me that, in its wild state, this particular species of the winged creation, at all events, is far from preserving that unity and perfect agreement in the home circle ascribed to it by one of our poets and pointed out for man’s emulation. It is in order to stimulate an artificially-produced anger, considered necessary for the success of the “concours,” that these matches are held in the early morning hours, while the birds of the trees and hedges are singing most lustily. The chirping of the imprisoned songsters proceeds from a wild frenzy of desire to do battle-royal with those of their brethren still enjoying freedom, and by degrees the longing grows for an encounter with their competing neighbours.
CAUGHT!—THE CAPTURE OF A FUTURE COMPETITOR.
From a Photograph.
These matches are under the strictest control, both as regards discipline and fairness, and any candidate found guilty of dishonesty in marking is punished by summary expulsion from his club. Stewards controlling the judging parade up and down with their eyes upon the markers, so that cheating under such close supervision is well-nigh impossible.
As the most successful of the finches trilled forth its five hundred and eighteenth “Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” the order was passed along the line to cease scoring and make known the final results. With startling promptness each candidate sprang to his feet and began to add his score. The owner of the champion bird, a cripple, showed calm pleasure as he proceeded to replace in its box his little favourite’s cage, upon which was painted a landscape which succeeded in defying every law of perspective.
During the summer months these “concours” are held at very frequent intervals in the country districts of both France and Belgium, and a competitor is frequently the possessor of several birds, which are usually caught by means of a net, but almost every method is productive of quick results, for the chaffinch is an eager wooer, his addresses to his lady-love rendering him totally blind to his own danger. He is beset with rivals, and as the female bird invariably smiles upon the strongest suitor she is the cause of innumerable battles, in which it is usual for several lovers to be left dead upon the field. The chaffinch is very easily trapped by using a tame finch to stir up his jealousy. A limed twig is attached to the tame bird, who is allowed to run about where the twittering of the wild birds is heard. As soon as the latter become conscious of the presence of an alien in their midst an onslaught is made, which generally ends in the capture of one, if not more, of the attackers. Another method of capturing the chaffinch, and the one most in vogue among the Flemish “Vinkeniers,” is represented in two of the accompanying photographs. A stuffed finch fixed to a small peg is placed in the grass, clearly visible to the birds in the trees, while a live decoy, in a cage, carefully covered up with loose grass and twigs, so as not to attract any attention, is concealed not many yards away. A long net, spread out on the ground between the two decoy birds, lies in readiness to make prisoners of the little feathered warriors as soon as they cluster round the stuffed bird, incited by the clamours of the caged enticer. A pull of the long strings, leading into the ambush of the bird-catchers, may cause as many as thirty finches at a time to fall into the hands of the trappers.
THE FIGHT AT THE A-T RANCH.
By Frank Bransted.
The story of one of the most sanguinary “cattle wars” the West has ever known. The long-standing feud between the big cattlemen and the homesteaders, whose advent means the doom of the open range, led in this instance to a most extraordinary state of affairs, in which one side raised a regiment of ruffians to wipe out their enemies, while the other retorted by laying siege to their opponents’ head-quarters with rifle-pits and dynamite bombs! “The narrative is absolutely true,” writes the author, “only the names of the cattlemen concerned being changed.”
With a rattle of wheels over stones and frozen ground the buckboard swung round the bend and down across the muddy creek flats. The driver, Ranger Jones, one of the pioneers of Northern Wyoming, drew off his leather glove and rubbed his chilled hands on the buffalo robe to restore circulation. The sun was low in the west, and, after placing his hand on the heavy Colt that lay reassuringly beside him on the seat, he drew on his glove and spoke sharply to his team. A moment later they struck the bridge, and after clattering across the shaky wooden structure began the ascent of the south bank.
Scarcely had the buckboard left the bridge than from underneath it was thrust the barrel of a rifle. A sharp report rang out, followed by two others in rapid succession, and with his fingers groping vainly for his pistol Ranger Jones, the best rider and one of the bravest men of the Big Horn country, fell forward off the seat. Shot three times through the back, he was dead before his head struck the dashboard.
Jones’s death was but one of the brutal murders that about 1890 horrified the settlers east of the Big Horns and north of the Powder River. This country, which had formerly belonged exclusively to the cattle kings, had of late years been invaded by homesteaders and other settlers, who had begun to stretch their hated wire fences along the creeks and around the water-holes on the alkali flats to the east. Early in the winter all the settlers in this district had received warnings that they had been tried by “a jury of their betters” and found guilty of cattle rustling, and warning them that if they did not leave the country within thirty days their lives would be forfeited. These warnings were signed by the “White Cap Protective League.” The letters, which were known to be the work of the Cattle Association, or of some of its members, were for the most part disregarded.
The death of Ranger Jones fanned to a white heat the flames of rage that had been aroused by the previous murders, and a meeting was called at which Frank Benton, an ex-sheriff of Johnson County, was by common assent adjudged the person guilty of Ranger Jones’s death, and he was sentenced to die by the hand of the first of the settlers who had a chance to pot him. It was further agreed to discover, if possible, the ringleaders of the “White Caps,” and either to lynch them or drive them from the country. But the searchers were unable to find Benton, who, having heard of the plans laid for his taking-off, held a hasty consultation with Dr. Hays and Ben Williams, two of the leading cattlemen, and then boarded a train at Cheyenne and fled to Texas. Once there, he began scouring the country for “bad men.” Any man who had some other man’s blood on his hands found favour with Benton, and at the little town of Utica, where he made his head-quarters, he soon gathered together as choice a collection of “toughs” and murderers as could be found in any one hundred square miles on earth. These men he hired to go with him to Wyoming and kill “Rustlers.” They signed a contract to stay with him for six months and were to receive fifty dollars apiece per month, and one hundred dollars were to be divided amongst the bunch for every man that they killed.
Late in April the band, consisting of sixty men, with Benton and a negro cook, boarded a train on the M. K. T. for the north. At Omaha, where they outfitted, they bought up practically all the ammunition in the town, as well as large quantities of provisions, bedding, tents, and other articles. They were joined here by Dr. Hays, who, after expressing himself as being well pleased with the appearance of the men selected, informed Benton that horses and supply wagons awaited him at Douglas, Wyoming. Before parting from Benton he gave him a revised list of some forty men of whom the cattle kings were desirous of ridding the country.
On Thursday, the 27th of April, the little town of Douglas was surprised and terrified by the appearance of sixty armed men who alighted from the Elkhorn train. The strangers paid but little attention to the townspeople, but hastened out to the E——Y ranch near the town, where their horses awaited them. Here they pitched camp for the night, and at daylight the next morning set off for the north-west, camping that night on the banks of Wild Horse Creek, some forty miles from Douglas. By Saturday night they were within sight of the Powder River, but were halted by Benton in the hills south of the river until it became dark, when they advanced, and, after fording the river, camped in a large cottonwood grove for the night. At two o’clock in the morning they were awakened, and followed their leader on foot for a couple of miles, when, just as day was breaking, they came to a little log-house near the banks of the Powder River. The building was on the claim of a small rancher named Ben Champion, and stopping with him at the time was another rancher named Billy Ray. Both men had received White Cap notices, and were living together for greater security.
Swiftly the men under Benton—who were known thereafter as White Caps—surrounded the ranch and lay concealed, awaiting the appearance of the hapless ranchers, who were to be their first victims. About five o’clock the door opened and Billy Ray stepped out.
“Get breakfast, Ben, and I will look after the horses,” he called out, cheerily, as he started for the log stable near the river bank.
Half-way there he paused and partly turned as if to retrace his steps. Thinking that they had been discovered in their hiding-place, Benton gave the order to fire, and poor Ray fell riddled with bullets.
“Now for the house, boys! Get the other one!” yelled Benton, and he headed a rush at the log building. The rush, however, ended in a wild stampede for shelter, for, regardless of the bullets smashing into the logs around him, Ben Champion appeared in the doorway with a six-shooter in either hand streaming fire and lead. One White Cap lay dead close beside the body of Billy Ray, and another one was painfully trying to drag himself into shelter with a broken leg trailing behind him.
From all sides a perfect hail of bullets was now poured into the log cabin, and but for the seasoned logs stopping a large proportion of the bullets no man could have lived inside for five minutes. As it was, bullets were constantly getting in through the chinks and crevices between the timbers. After the first charge failed, Champion, knowing that it was only a question of time before the White Caps killed him, sat down at his table and wrote a letter of farewell to his mother and sisters in far-away Vermont. He also, from time to time, wrote down short comments on the battle in progress. This blood-stained diary, which is now the property of the State Historical Society at Cheyenne, reads as follows:—
“Six o’clock.—It is just about an hour since they killed Billy, and, while bullets have been buzzing around in here pretty lively ever since, I am still untouched. I just wrote a letter to my mother.
“Seven o’clock.—As I was writing in this book before a bullet smashed up my left arm pretty badly, but I have it tied up and the bleeding stopped. Now I have got my revenge, too, for as I shifted from one end of the shack to the other I caught one fellow trying to run up here with a bunch of burning brush in his hands. He’ll not need brush to keep warm where he is now.
“Nine o’clock.—Still on deck, but getting kind of wobbly on the pins from loss of blood. Have been hit four times.
“Nine-forty a.m.—Well, good-bye everyone. They set a load of hay on fire and let it run down the hill against the side of the shack and the roof is all ablaze. I am waiting till the smoke settles over the main bunch a little thicker and then I will try to get in amongst them with my six-shooter, if I can, before they down me. Good-bye.—Ben.”
A whiff of wind from the north blew a heavy cloud of smoke low down over a bunch of White Caps lying in the shelter of a small creek some fifty yards from the cabin, and when it lifted Ben Champion stood amongst them with a smoking revolver in his hand. A moment later he lay dead on the sand with over forty bullets through his body, but in that short space of time his deadly Colt had sent two more of the White Caps to their last reckoning.
“BEN CHAMPION APPEARED IN THE DOORWAY WITH A SIX-SHOOTER IN EITHER HAND STREAMING FIRE AND LEAD.”
While the White Caps were burying their dead, the horses and wagons were brought up and the outfit cooked their breakfast on the embers of the burning logs. Then, placing their wounded comrade in a supply wagon, they moved up the river in search of more victims. Surrounding two ranches, they crept up to them, only to find them vacant; they were too late, for their firing had attracted the attention of a rancher named Whitmore as he stopped to water his horse at the ford a mile below Champion’s ranch, and he had ridden up close enough to see the finish of the unequal fight, and had then spurred his horse up the river, warning the settlers that the much-talked-of White Cap invasion had begun. The news spread over the country like wildfire, and, instead of fleeing from the danger-zone, the ranchers and cow-punchers buckled on their guns and headed for the scene of the fight. They started in ones and twos, but as they got closer in they began to gather in bunches of ten or twelve, all spoiling for a fight, if there was a prospect of avenging the death of their comrades.
In vain did Benton and his regiment try to close with any of these bunches; their horses were fresh, and they would run as long as chased by the White Caps; but once let the chase cease and they were back again, waiting for a chance to sneak up under cover of a hill or ravine to pour in a volley of bullets and again take to their heels if pursued. By three o’clock there were fully fifty men harassing the White Caps, and Benton decided to make for the shelter of the A—T ranch on Crazy Woman Creek, some fifty miles to the north-west. The first few miles was an orderly march, but the “Rustlers,” as the other side called them, were constantly increasing in numbers and pressing in closer behind. At five o’clock Benton gave his men the order to strap their ammunition on to the backs of the wagon horses and to abandon the wagons and supplies. From an orderly march their ride had now degenerated into a wild dash over the barren sage brush flats for refuge in the far-off ranch. Darkness alone saved them from extermination, and as it was, only forty-five powder-stained, worn-out White Caps rode up to Dr. Hays’s A—T ranch just as the sun rose on Monday morning.
After a hasty breakfast they set to work barricading the windows and doors of the stout log-house, as well as building a fort of stones around the well and cutting a trench from there to the house and the barn, a large two-storey frame structure which was rendered almost bullet-proof by lining it with bales of hay. Noon found them well prepared for a siege—found, too, close on three hundred Rustlers watching them from the surrounding hill-tops.
A long-range fusillade was kept up all day on Monday without effect on either side, and Monday night also passed uneventfully. Tuesday found the Rustlers entrenched in rifle-pits and stone forts within easy range on all sides of the ranch buildings. They had received large quantities of ammunition from Buffalo, which was only fifteen miles north of them, and had also brought up the tents and provisions abandoned by the White Caps near the Powder River. All day long the numbers of the Rustlers kept constantly increasing, till by nightfall fully five hundred men were pouring lead into the buildings and forts on the A—T. The firing kept up all Tuesday night, and under cover of the darkness the Rustlers advanced their rifle-pits to within two hundred yards of the ranch buildings. Seated on the top of a pile of earth and thinking himself safe in the darkness, young Tommy Arnold, of the Rustlers, fired a shot at the dark mass of buildings in the valley. Quick as lightning came an answering shot, fired at the flash of his gun, and young Arnold pitched forward, shot through the breast. Angered at the death of Arnold, several Rustlers digging a pit near him seized their rifles and poured in a volley of bullets at the spot where they had seen the gun-flash in the valley. With five further shots, however, the hidden marksman wounded two of them and threw dirt into the faces of a couple more, so that they were soon glad to quit the unequal duel. The man who did this shooting was afterwards discovered to be an ex-United States marshal from Oklahoma, named Smith. He was wounded on the last day of the fight, and afterwards died from his wounds.
On Tuesday afternoon Bob Snelling and John Pettybone, two of the richest ranchers among the Rustlers, rode over to Fort McKinney and offered the commander there two thousand dollars for the use of his cannon for one day. Of course, the commandant had to refuse, and he further took warning, so that that night, when a party of Rustlers, led by Tom Ray, arrived with the intention of stealing the gun they found it had been wheeled into the guard-house and a sentry stationed over it. Not to be daunted by these failures to secure a big gun, old Jack Flagett, a veteran of the Civil War, essayed to make one. He secured a team and drove to Buffalo, returning with a number of lengths of iron piping. He first placed a three-inch pipe around a two-inch and pounded the intervening space full of wet sand, repeating the performance with a four and six inch pipe. The whole affair was then chained securely to the stump of a tree on the top of a hill about five hundred yards from the A—T buildings. Next the amateur artillerist rammed in a couple of pounds of powder, and, for a projectile, put in five pounds of dynamite. Then he called out to some near-by Rustlers: “Come over, boys, and watch me blow that White Cap outfit to Hades!”
He was about to set a match to the touch-hole when one Fred Johnston interfered.
“Better set it off with a fuse, Jack,” he said.
“Well, to satisfy you, I will,” replied Flagett; “but there is no danger, as this gun can stand anything.”
A six-inch fuse was then placed in the gun and lighted, and everyone retired into an adjacent pit, dragging old Jack with them. For a moment all was silence; then came an awful ear-splitting report, and a cloud of dust settled over the rifle pit. When it cleared away all trace of Flagett’s cannon and the stump as well had disappeared. Not a piece of either was ever found, though Hall Smith, who was in charge of the cook-camp half a mile farther back, swore that he heard a piece of pipe whistle over his head a few seconds after the explosion.
Wednesday night passed very quietly, the White Caps being short of ammunition, and the Rustlers busy in the construction of a movable fort on wheels. They placed three mountain wagons in the shape of the letter V, and built a framework of poles between them. This frame they covered with bales of hay and suspended other bales from it clear to the ground. There was room within this curious fort for twenty men, and loopholes were left in the front sides for firing through as they slowly propelled it forward. It was the intention to roll this up within throwing distance of the ranch buildings, and then to demolish them with dynamite bombs.
On Thursday morning, just at sunrise, the ponderous engine began to crawl forward on its half-mile journey. Slowly but surely it crept along, till at ten o’clock it was less than three hundred yards from the ranch. In vain did the White Caps concentrate their fire on the moving fortress; their bullets were absorbed by the hay as water by a sponge. Inside the beleaguered ranch all was excitement and terror. Only too well did they know the fate that awaited them unless the grim monster advancing on them was checked. Benton called his boys together. “Boys, we must stop that fort or die like rats in a trap,” he said. “I want twenty men to follow me. Each will take a torch in one hand and his six-shooter in the other, and I promise one thousand dollars to the first man to fire the hay walls of the fort.”
The moving fort was now less than a hundred yards from the house, and the furious fire from the hills and pits that had covered its advance died down as the Rustlers lay, with their loaded rifles silent, waiting for some move on the part of the White Caps.
Within the ranch-house all was quiet. The twenty men selected for the dash stood with their right hands clenched around the butts of their heavy Colts and their lefts grasping kerosene-soaked torches. All eyes were fixed on their leader, who stood next to big Ben Williams, who was noiselessly removing the bars from the door. “Ready, boys!” came in clear, low tones from Benton as the last bar was lifted from its socket. Every man braced himself for the leap—ready, in fact, anxious, to have the dreadful suspense at an end, though each well knew that the opening of the door would be a signal for five hundred rifles to sweep the space between the house and the fort with a perfect hail of lead. Quickly the door swung open, and Benton leaped out. His eyes swept the surrounding hills; then he turned and tried to leap back into the protection of the log walls again. But all in vain! Quicker than thought came a flash of fire from a loophole in the fort, and Benton fell in the doorway with a bullet from Tom Champion’s rifle through his lungs.
“Keep back, boys!” he gasped. “Stay inside. You’re saved—the troops are coming.” They dragged him in, but these were his last words; the heavy hand of the avenging angel had fallen on him, and he had gone for a final reckoning.
“To the loopholes, boys!” shouted Williams, who had now taken command. “Shoot as you never shot before. If we can hold them in check for five minutes we are saved.”
From loopholes and cracks thirty-five rifles concentrated their fire on the hay fort, and the furious storm of lead caused Champion and the twenty men behind the bales to lie low and hug the ground. They knew that the fire could not long be sustained at that rate, and that when it slackened they could advance with fewer casualties. Glancing from a loophole to the north, Tom Champion saw two lines of brown-coated men, riding furiously in the midst of a cloud of dust, sweep over the hills less than a mile away. “Boys, the troops are coming!” he shouted. “Quick! light a fuse and try a throw from here.”
Hastily the bomb was prepared and thrown. The five-pound parcel of dynamite circled through the air and fell only ten feet short of the wall. For an instant there was silence; then came the explosion, and for a few minutes all was hid in a blinding cloud of dust. When it settled it revealed a gaping hole in the side of the house and the dim forms of men inside striving desperately to replace the dislocated logs.
“To the loopholes, boys! Pick them off!” cried Champion, but before a shot could be fired, between them and the house swept a line of cavalry, and the fight at the A—-T had passed into history.
Clothed in the uniform and authority of the United States army, fifty men from the Thirteenth Cavalry robbed five hundred raging Rustlers of their prey. No true American can fire on the army uniform, and cursing and furious, but powerless to interfere, the Rustlers could only stand by and watch thirty-five men—all that were left of the invaders—come forth and surrender themselves to Captain Watterson and his men, to be transported to Cheyenne for trial for the murder of Ray, Champion, and others. They were ultimately released without the formality of a trial after some of the moneyed cattle kings had conferred with the State officials.
“BENTON FELL IN THE DOORWAY WITH A BULLET FROM TOM CHAMPION’S RIFLE THROUGH HIS LUNGS.”
Dr. Hays, Ben Williams, and other of the leading cattlemen fled from the country, never to return. Their buildings were burned, their horses and cattle shot on sight by the Rustlers, while their calves bore the brand of the first man to see them. Many a wealthy rancher in that district to-day owes his start to the calves he gathered up when the big outfits went to pieces.
So ended one of the most sanguinary cattle wars that the West has ever witnessed. All that remains to-day to recall it is a group of bullet-scarred buildings, surrounded by weed-grown rifle-pits, some two hours’ ride south-east of Buffalo, near the junction of Muddy Creek with the north fork of the Crazy Woman.