Two men joined him. One of them said: "I have just died." They went on together, their feet whispering in the sand, walking in a globe of darkness until the stars came out—then they saw one another's pale faces and eager, frightened eyes. Others joined them. And others. Men. Women. A child. Some wept and some murmured and some laughed.
"Is this death?"
"Where now, brother?"
Grimshaw thought: "The end. What next? Beauty. Love. Illusion.
Forgetfulness."
He clasped his hands behind his back, lifted his face to the stars, walked steadily forward with that company of the dead, into the desert, out of the story at last.
COMET [Published originally under title, "The Comet.">[
By SAMUEL A. DERIEUX
From American Magazine
No puppy ever came into the world under more favourable conditions than Comet. He was descended from a famous family of pointers. Both his mother and father were champions. Before he opened his eyes, while he was still crawling about over his brothers and sisters, blind as puppies are at birth, Jim Thompson, Mr. Devant's kennel master, picked him out.
"That's the best un in the bunch."